Paramnesia
by TheCatalystx
Summary: "Every monster has a story. Remember that." That was the advice that Bea Stilinski's mother gave her. She thinks about it a lot now, especially as she returns home to investigate a string of suicides. Caught between reconnecting with her family and an impossible mystery that pulls her in, Bea will need a little help from some familiar faces if she's going to solve this one. S4/AU.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf or any of its characters. I do, however, own my OCs and this plot, which will be an original, alternative plot to season 4. I decided to take on this story because after season 3 I found myself growing more and more disappointed with the new seasons. Every premiere, I hoped that _this_ would be the season it turned around - _this_ would be the season that would change my mind. But season 6 has ended, and so has the show, and I was left with that same desire to feel invested in their story again.

I love the Teen Wolf characters, and I thought they deserved a little rewrite. That's what I've aimed to do with this story. My OC opens the door to new content and explores the life of Bea Stilinski and how her existence changes the lives we've become so familiar with in some surprising ways. Romance isn't the goal of this story but as I've gotten further along in developing the relationships and subplots, it seems inevitable, so keep your eyes open for that and enjoy the ride.

Bea is seven years older than Stiles and she was old enough to realize - possibly more than anyone else - what was happening to Claudia as she grew more and more sick, and she remembers everything. This story will get into that, too.

Also, very important: This story, if you cannot tell, deals with suicide. This might be triggering to some people. If you think you might be one of those people, please, do not read any further. The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline in the USA is 1-800-273-8255.

Otherwise, thank you for stopping by and _**please review!**_

* * *

Paramnesia.

 _noun_

1\. A distortion of memory in which fact and fantasy are confused.

2\. The inability to recall the correct meaning of a word.

* * *

 **September 1995**

 **Beacon Hills, CA**

 **Riley Bridge**

The dusty blue jeep pulled into an empty parking lot just off of Route 23. It was warm out, so the windows were down, allowing the sound of the family singing inside to be heard over the drowsy thrum of the cicadas.

Claudia Stilinski kept the jeep running so they could finish the song. Her husband, Noah, smiled as his wife and his oldest child, Bea, continued to croon along with Patsy Cline about searching for their long lost lover after midnight.

Claudia reached out to switch the stereo off. "See? I knew it would be the perfect day to come. My instincts are always right."

Noah put his hands up in mock-surrender. "Whoa! That's a trap! I know better than to argue with that. I'd like to not have to sleep on the couch tonight, thank you very much." He snickered as Claudia gave him a good-natured swat on his shoulder.

"I don't know who you think you're kidding," She shot back. "You'll be asleep in that recliner before the game is even over this evening."

He chuckled in agreement and they undid their seatbelts to begin gathering the children to take them to the bridge. Noah leaned over Stiles' car seat and presented him a baseball cap with a flourish, arranging his features into that of over-dramatic admiration.

Stiles' pudgy little face lit up in delight and he giggled and grabbed at his father's face. "See that?" Noah pointed at the symbol of his favorite baseball team on the front of the cap. "That's for good luck! You're gonna be our good luck charm. Yes you are!"

Stiles gurgled merrily as Noah settled the cap gently over his head. He sat back to look at the child and made a noise of appreciation at the result. Stiles kicked his little feet and turned his head with the hat on, adjusting to the added weight and pressure on his head, and Noah laughed contentedly as he freed the baby of his straps and extracted him from the car seat.

Bea came bounding up, her dark ponytail bouncing as she held up a loaf of bread in a plastic bag, which swung slightly in front of her face. "For the ducks!"

"What? The ducks? No way! That's for my lunch!"

Bea giggled loudly at her dad and shook her head. She snatched the bag protectively to her chest and said, "No, daddy. The ducks are too hungry."

"Well!" He proclaimed, shifting Stiles in his arms. "Did you hear that? Bea's choosing a buncha lousy mallards over her own flesh and blood! Traitor."

"Oh, alright. But you just get two," She relented, and immediately plopped on the ground to begin picking at the twisty tie on the bag.

Noah quietly gasped at Stiles and bounced him in his arms. "We just get _two_ ," He reported to the baby, who stretched his hand and tittered. Noah shook his head. "No, that's what she said. Two. I know!"

"Okay, umm...?" Claudia called from where she was bent in the back of the jeep. "Noah! What did you do with the basket?"

"What?" Noah stepped around his daughter to approach Claudia.

"The basket! The basket of food for lunch."

"What are you talking about? I thought you were supposed to pack the basket."

"What? No, I was fixing Bea's hair, remember?"

"Honey, I had to take a call from the station." Noah grabbed the neck of Stiles' onesie to wipe at some dribble on the baby's lips. At that time, Noah was a rookie police officer at the local station. He had just graduated from the police academy and the station rarely called, unless it was to do with paperwork or picking up hours. It was an unspoken rule that if the station called, Noah answered, and sometimes that meant that certain responsibilities would be neglected. "Did you check the—"

"Yes, I checked the back seat. Twice! It's not there." She sighed loudly and pulled out from the back of the jeep. Her pretty face screwed up in distress and she ran a hand down her braided hair as she shook her head in defeat. "It's just not there. It's probably still sitting on the counter at home. Should I run back and get it?"

"No, that's okay. We'll just make this a quick trip," Noah shrugged. "We can be flexible, can't we, Stiles?"

Stiles stared up at him.

"I got bread!" Bea announced as she pushed off the gravel parking lot to brush her shorts off and hold the bag aloft. "It's hard to get open, though."

"Oh, no, baby." Claudia shook her head. "That's for the ducks!"

"Two for daddy," The girl corrected.

When Claudia shot a look at Noah he gave her a nonchalant shrug. "Deal's a deal."

"That it is," she relented, and retrieved the modest stroller from the narrow trunk of the jeep to transfer Stiles into its snug, cushioned seat. Noah strapped him in and grabbed ahold of the handles. Turning to Bea, Claudia held out her hand. "Come here, Bea, hold my hand when we cross the road, okay?"

As the family crossed to the paved trail that led to Riley Bridge, a few cawing black birds passed them noisily overhead.

"Ducks!" Bea shouted.

"Those are ravens, baby," Claudia said.

Bea led the charge onto the path and frowned as she turned to walk backwards and watch the ravens fly onto the power lines over the street. "Do ravens eat bread?"

"They can. Ravens are omnivores." Noah lifted the wheels of the stroller to get over the curb. "Do you know what that means?"

"It means… um… that ravens are dinosaurs?" Bea guessed, causing her parents to laugh loudly. She crossed her arms and stopped on the path to glare at them. "Stop! It's not funny! You stupid jerks!"

Noah, if anything, laughed harder, which made Bea stomp her foot and whine loudly.

Claudia did her best to stifle her amusement. "It means they eat both meat and vegetation, instead of one or the other. Like us. And insects. Not like us."

"Insects?" Bea squeaked, horror dawning across her small features. "Eww!"

"But mostly," Noah rumbled in a menacing tone as he leaned over the stroller and took on a predatory crouch, lifting a clawed hand. "They wait… until their prey is vulnerable and exposed… And they strike!"

He made a growling noise and Claudia watched in amusement as Bea turned with a high pitched squeal and tore down the path. Noah roared loudly and chased after her.

Nearby, a third, unseen person watched as the little girl sped down the winding path and shrieked in delight, her father close on her heels with the stroller bouncing over the bumps in the path all the way. The baby let out peals of contagious laughter as they chased his older sister up to the bridge, where they ducked down to hide.

The girl, unaware, continued running. "Momma!" She yelled. "Don't let him catch me!"

Her sandals plodded over the cement bridge and she gasped in another laugh. Slowly, she realized that she wasn't being chased. She turned around and stared at the path she'd just ran off. There came a rustle from the trees behind her and she whipped around, thinking her father must have somehow snuck across to catch her by surprise.

But when she turned she didn't see anything. She could only hear the rustle of something moving just out of sight, deep in the tall trees that blocked the afternoon sun. It was dark in the woods across the bridge and she could feel a cold breeze float out from inside, whistling a low, gentle tune that made her back up a step. A twig snapped close enough to sound like it came from the brush off to the side and she flinched.

"Hey..." Her voice twinged with distress. "Dad, where'd you go?"

"Raaaagh! I'm gonna getcha!" Noah popped up behind her and scooped her up in his arms, and her bag of bread fell on the bridge. "Hah-hah!" He triumphantly exclaimed, throwing her over his shoulder as she screamed in surprise. "Gotcha!"

"No!" She cried. "Put me down!"

Noah's teasing, monstrous roars dwindled slightly as the girl wriggled in his arms and pushed at him to try and escape. "Okay, okay. Hey…" He set her down and knelt before her, keeping a gentle hold on her arm when she tried to tug away. "What's wrong? I'm sorry baby, it was just a game."

She sniffed indignantly. "I know."

"Is it because you couldn't see me?"

She wiped at her nose and nodded, her chin nearly touching her chest, and Noah pulled her into a soothing hug, a shameful chuckle reverberating in his throat as he held her close and petted her hair. "Sorry, baby."

"Daddy's mean, isn't he?" Claudia instigated, having witnessed the whole scene. But it drew a rueful smile from the small girl, who chuckled and shook herself off.

"Yeah! A big, mean jerk!"

They carried on like this, playing and enjoying the warm afternoon and the view that the tall bridge afforded them of the creek that cut a curving path between Beacon Hills and the Preserve.

It was a deep creek; one with a muddy, rocky shore and a pool near the end that looked like it had been torn straight from a book of spooky fables. There was plenty of vegetation growing. Moss and cattails and lily pads with pretty lotus flowers, accompanied with a musical buzz of toads, bugs and various small creatures that called this spot home.

There were, however, no ducks. "They might have flown south," Bea suggested.

"It's the middle of September, baby," Claudia told her. "That won't happen for a couple of months at least."

"Who will eat the bread?"

"We can use the bread. It won't go to waste," Noah reassured where he was stooped by the stroller. He gave Stiles a vibrantly colorful set of linking rings to play with.

Bea pouted and grabbed a blue metal pole to one of the lamps on the bridge and leaned against it. She turned her eyes onto the pale metal and traced a finger down its smooth, warm surface. "Ssst…Stee…Stew."

"What?" Noah asked.

She tapped the pole. "Stew."

He came to her side, putting a hand on her back. "What are you talking about?"

Her finger, with its purple glitter polish, pointed at a name that was jaggedly etched into the metal. STEVE, it spelled, in uneven, crooked lettering, and the two last letters were so close together the V looked more like a W.

Noah opened his mouth to tell her it was probably just graffiti from some teen when a new voice answered unexpectedly. "Steve Young," A man said. He stood at the end of the bridge with the woods to his back and wore a dark blue windbreaker and a woolen, flat cap over his greying hair. "Only seventeen years old. Whole life ahead of 'im. Jumped last month."

"Oh," Claudia blinked, disturbed. She cast a weary glance down to her children and pulled Stiles' stroller closer. "How sad."

"Jumped?" Bea asked curiously. She started to step away from the pole to get a better view of the man but Noah held her in place, his hand having moved from her back to her shoulder. "What does he mean, daddy?" She looked up at him.

"I mean he jumped over the rail, little girl!" The man croaked, his voice bloated like a frog's, and Bea found that she didn't care for the mustache that seemed to take up his entire top lip. "Didn't your folks tell ya? This bridge's got a nasty reputation. It's famous around here."

"Why?" She asked, as children do, and her parents, unsure of how to handle the situation, hesitated just a moment too long.

"Cause it's a death trap. It might be pretty now, but don't ever come out here after dark. There's all sorts of things just waitin' for kids to get close enough…" He put his hand up in a monster claw that looked just like the one Noah had made earlier, but it was scarier to her now. "Then lure 'em over…" He snapped his hand shut and snatched it down. "And pull 'em in!"

Bea watched him with wide, stunned eyes as the man gave a low, somewhat insincere chuckle as if he was aware that what he said would scare her but he didn't want to anger the parents too much. He lifted his eyes from her to break the nightmarish trance he'd trapped her in, and then his grin dropped completely.

"Shouldn't bring your kids here," He told Claudia, in a stoney voice. "It ain't safe."

The adults stepped in then, telling the elderly gentlemen in as a direct manner possible, while still remaining polite, to please leave. As soon as he was gone Noah began reassuring Bea, who was not yet old enough to fully comprehend what she'd been told beyond the fact that it scared her, that nothing would happen to her as long as he or her mother were around.

Bea learned a very general understanding of what suicide was that day. What was intended to be a short, innocent trip to the prettiest view in Beacon Hills had taken an unexpected and somber turn, and Bea would always remember the way the murky woods had towered over her when she ran too far ahead of her dad. She would not soon forget the warning the strange man had left her with, either.

Never go to Riley Bridge at night.

* * *

 **Late December 2011**

 **The Daily Sun, CA**

 **Conference Room**

As newspapers go, The Daily Sun was a rather reputable one. It's well known for its investigative journalists, who first broke ground in the early 2000s when they uncovered a child-predator sex ring that had been going on since the early nineties, and went all the way up to state government officials.

Bea was lucky to be counted amongst their ranks. She had nothing to do with the piece they covered on the child sex-ring, but she'd done her fair share of investigating and earned respect around the place early on.

At the moment, though, she just wanted to be in bed at her apartment, curled up with the lights off and curtains drawn, with nothing but the quiet swish of the fan blades overhead to disrupt the peace. It would be a welcomed relief from the loud chatter of voices in her ear.

She should be contributing. She should be making an effort. Not hunched down in her seat with her hand covering her eyes, fantasizing that she was far away on a warm beach with a cold margarita in her hand.

"Really?" Aarons whispered, leaning close. "Sunglasses? Could you at least try to be a little less cliché, please?"

Bea groaned quietly and reached out to push blindly at Aarons. "Go away."

He snorted. "Hey, you wanna know my cure for a hangover? It works, I swear."

She grunted in response.

"Don't drink in the first place," He suggested. "Seriously."

Bea drew in a breath to snicker sarcastically at him and turned to sit up in her seat. "That's revolutionary. Quick, give me your pen, I've gotta write that down!"

Aarons laughed and shook his head. "I'm serious though, Stilinski. You've gotta stop drinking alone. It's starting to make you look like you've got a problem." He paused as a thought occurred to him. "If Cooper finds out you're an alcoholic, we can't be drinking buddies anymore."

"I'm not an alcoholic, you jackass!" She grinned and shook her head, tapping a finger against her notes. "I was celebrating. It was the holidays. There was eggnog."

"Festive," He quipped.

She stretched a derisive grin on her face and nodded at him with her eyebrows raised.

"Honestly though, it's super obvious that you're hung over when you have those things covering your whole face. Why do girls wear sunglasses so big? Take them off before Cooper notices, or you'll be fired for sure."

"You talk a lot, you know that?" Bea lifted her glasses off her nose and slid them over the top of her head. She turned her face to squint against the light at Aarons.

He recoiled and immediately reached out to push the sunglasses back down. "Jesus! Cover that up!"

She made an unpleasant noise and batted his hand away, self-consciously pushing her chair farther away. As if that would deter him any. He reminded her of Stiles sometimes. At that thought, guilt panged deep in her chest, and she cleared her throat to repress the emotion.

After that she tried to catch any part of the numerous conversations occurring around them, figuring that it would be wise to at least look like she was conscious and working. She scribbled down a few superficial notes.

"You look like you're about to crawl up the walls," Aarons whispered, and Bea chuckled despite herself. "The power of Christ compels you—"

"Dude, stop," she whispered furiously. "You're drawing attention to us!"

Sure enough, a few of their coworkers had paused to turn and see what Aarons was referring to, and Bea offered them weak smiles of acknowledgment. They shook their heads and she shot Aarons a dirty look.

Unable to help himself, Aarons put a finger up like he was signaling her to be quiet so he could speak. He began to recite a prayer in Hebrew, and his tone alone expressed the nature of the prayer. He was cut short by Bea's fist, which sharply connected with his shoulder, and he loudly winced and flinched away from her with a laugh.

"Freaking asshole," She muttered, though she couldn't keep the grin from her face. "What were you saying, anyways?"

He shook his head. "I dunno. Nothing really, just Hebrew words."

"Jessica would be appalled."

"You're probably right about that," He admitted. His face drooped to a somewhat grudging, scathing expression. "Speaking of which, she wanted me to thank you for the _planner_ you got her for the holiday. Thanks for that, by the way."

She grinned shamelessly. "You're welcome! That's a gift for both of you to enjoy. Now she can take full control of your life and strategize it down to the finest detail."

"You know what? On second thought, never stop drinking. I can't lose my drinking buddy. I'll need you in the months to come."

Bea's jaw dropped and she started to form a loud, amused taunt, but before she got the chance her name was called out. Cooper, the giant, sat at the head of the table with a stress ball he passed back and forth between his huge hands. "Something you care to share with the class, Stilinski?"

Recovering from the surprise of being called out, she shook her head and cast a fleeting glance to Aarons, who looked to be hiding his admonishment with a collected, and totally fake, expression of interest. "Oh, just that Jessica is going to go Full Metal Jacket when I tell her what Aarons just said to me."

There were a couple of oohs and several snickers from their coworkers, and Aarons scowled and rolled his eyes. Cooper was unimpressed. "What's the name of that town you're from? Lighthouse Valley? Beaming Hillsides?"

She grit her teeth. "It's Beacon Hills, actually."

Cooper snapped his fingers and pointed at her. "Yes! That's the place."

Everyone waited for him to make a point, but Cooper seemed to be in no rush as he hummed thoughtfully to himself and sat back in his desk chair to rub at his goatee. He gave the stress ball a tight squeeze.

The silence stretched on for another long second. Bea opened her mouth and Cooper took the opportunity to cut her off again. "How's that piece on the protest coming?"

She hated being put on the spot like this. Especially when there wasn't much to update from what she had last week. "Well, progress is slow. One of my sources who stayed are trying to push—"

"Cut it," Cooper interrupted.

Bea stared at him. "…What?"

He leaned forward, looking her square in the eye. "We're cutting the protest piece."

"But—"

"Do you keep up with the local news there? In Beacon Hills, I mean."

She shifted uncomfortably. Her eyes didn't meet anyone's as she ducked her face and cleared her throat. "Uh, sure. I try to. I mean, I still get text alerts on my phone for the area so I know when there's been an earthquake or something."

"Oh, so you know about the girl who went missing last week?"

Bea slowly lifted her head and the room had gone so quiet that the air conditioning could be heard whirring from the corners of the room. Once again, she didn't get the chance to respond.

"Casey Michaels. Her body was found yesterday evening by canine units on the shore of a creek off of Route 23. And a month before that, Andrew Brown. Tyler Jones. Mariah Miller. Any of these ringing bells for you?"

"Uh…" She stared at him. "Missing children?"

"Teens," He corrected.

"Cooper—I mean," Aarons spoke up. He shook his head. "At the risk of sounding insensitive, what's your point? There are plenty of teens missing right here in our own community too."

Cooper pointed at him. "But none of them were suicides. Were they?"

Neither Bea nor Aarons had anything to say to that.

He looked back at Bea. "I guess 'missing' was a poor choice of words on my part. For the last month, starting with Andrew Brown, there have been suicides off Riley Bridge once a week. Which is ironic since they're slated to start construction to put in a suicide barrier after the New Year."

"Am I fired?" Bea asked, earning a few surprised scoffs, and Cooper smirked at her.

"Not yet." Her heart dropped, and everything around her seemed to go still. Cooper just kept smiling. "Look, I'll lay it out for you. There's evidence of a suicide pact in a neighboring county, which happens to be your hometown. Your dad is the Sheriff there, for Christ's sake. You've been desperate for new content ever since your piece on the Russian Laundromat. And that was a great story; nobody is disputing that. You've earned your spot on this team.

"And I'll say something else, even while everyone else can overhear. Stilinski, you've got what it takes to be a really, really great journalist." Her coworkers exchanged unreadable glances. "I think this will get you back on track, as long as you do it right. There's a story here. I can feel it. So I want you to bring it to me."

Bea blinked widely. "I… I don't know what to say."

"Yes," he supplied for her, waving his hand. "You say yes."

"Um—thank you," she hastily added. "I think."

He snorted. "You're welcome."

Gradually, people started to comment on what just happened. Quiet conversations ensued around them and Bea was lost in thought. She blinked again, and she realized the meeting had drawn to a close. People were standing from their chairs.

She began to gather her notes. Useless notes, now; notes on a dead piece. Her hand grasped the papers tightly.

"Stilinski," Cooper called, from where he'd stood from his chair. He was fixing his shirt where it'd pulled out from its tightly tucked position. "Why the long face? You finally get to go home to that spastic brother you're always talking about."

"Hah!" Aarons barked, smirking down at her. He clapped her shoulder. "Good news, huh?"

Bea sighed and shook her head. She couldn't decide what to do with the notes in her hands so she just held them awkwardly and pressed her lips together. "I guess this means I need to finally get them some Christmas gifts, huh?"

Cooper tilted his head. "I guess it does." He tapped the doorframe with his pen on the way out, a folder tucked in his other hand, and he lingered.

"Whiskey for dad," Bea decided aloud.

"No, no, no!" Aarons waved his hands as if to dispel the offensive idea from the air. "A flask! Get him a flask. I always picture your dad like Clint Eastwood. Man needs a flask."

"Classy," She noted in approval. Bea dumped her notes in the trashcan when they strolled towards the door. "I'll have to hide it from Stiles, of course. He might try to take it if he knows dad has one."

"Really? How old is he, again? Does he like drinking?" Aarons frowned.

"Drinking is kind of a Stilinski requirement," She admitted with a shrug. "But that's not really why. He wouldn't want to give dad an excuse to have alcohol on his person at all times."

"This is all very heartwarming, but don't you have calls to make?" Cooper reminded her. She'd already forgotten he was standing there, and she grabbed her sunglasses off the top of her head and sighed loudly.

"The Stilinskis, reunited again," Aarons announced, his hand spanning over the space in front of them as if the words were displayed on the front page of their paper. "I can't _wait_ to see how this turns out."


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Before the chapter starts, I wanted to give a HUUUGE thank you to _Hurricane.'97_ for all of her efforts in helping me with this fic. Without her, this story and Bea's character would be _nowhere_ near what it has shaped up to be.

I'm so glad to see you guys are excited and I know you'll like what we have in store for you! Another quick thanks to _Marloweee1856_ and _queenbee014_ for their generous reviews! Keep the reviews coming, guys!

(Sidenote: Face claim for Bea is Olivia Wilde. I also have her voice in my head every time she speaks, lol. She's kind of spot on for the character.)

We're just getting started here :)

* * *

 **Early December 1995**

 **Seattle, WA**

 **The Goodman's Cabin**

Spring turned to fall, and fall to winter, and Noah was settling into his new job spectacularly. He became good friends with his first field training officer, an older gentleman with thinning salt and pepper hair named Paul who had a very young wife named Lenore.

It seemed like the station had picked the oldest, saltiest, most senior cop and stuck him with the newbie. The intimidation factor was deliberate, but Paul's unique, likable way had Noah at ease within the first few words they exchanged. He seemed to inject a jarring sense of humor into everything he did.

For Stiles' first Christmas, Paul invited them to make use of a family cabin he owned up in Seattle, Washington. It was the first time Bea had seen snow, and they couldn't keep her out of it.

Claudia stood near the window and watched the small seven year old girl throw her arms back and twirl with her head turned to the sky and her tongue out to catch snow flakes. Noah and Paul were also outside, trying to get her to focus on building a snowman.

Claudia watched as Paul grabbed his empty bottle of beer and packed it into the snowman's thick, outstretched arm that he'd formed. Inside, Lenore was trying to get Stiles into his snow boots. She had immediately taken a shine to Stiles, and the toddler, mistrustful of the unfamiliar woman, made it as difficult a task as he could manage.

"Wait—no, don't lift your leg, Stiles. Sweetie, stop curling your toes."

Stiles' red, watery face scrunched and he took a deep breath to let out a big wail. As he did so, he flung back his head and head butted Lenore right in the lip. The sheer volume of the shriek seemed to shake the picture frames and deer heads mounted on the walls and Lenore had to stop wiggling his boot on his foot to wince and squint her eyes at Claudia, an unspoken cry for help.

As Claudia went to try and tame her wild son, outside Bea was frolicking around in awe at the bizarre, wet flurries that seemed to bury the hardened ground. It was the coldest thing she'd ever felt and she couldn't stop testing its effects. What happened when she kicked it? What happened when she jumped in it? What did it taste like?

Noah stood off to the side with Paul and was describing his theory on a case that the more seasoned detectives were currently working on back in Beacon Hills at that very moment. Paul, for his part, seemed uninterested and focused on getting the shape of the snowman's arm he finished just right.

When Noah paused to ask Paul what he thought, Paul cast him a fleeting glance. "Stilinski," He said. "It's Christmas. Shut the fuck up and hand me some more snow."

"Hey," Noah lowly warned. "Bea's standing right over there. She's obsessed with trying to teach Stiles his first word, and if she heard you she might get it in her head that it would be funny to try and make it that one." Paul laughed and commented on the mischievous nature of the girl with some note of glee in his voice. "Claudia would smother me in my sleep if Bea actually managed to pull it off."

"Damn," Paul commented, earning a shoulder full of Noah's fist. He laughed and put his hands up in surrender. Just then, a large gust of wind blew past and knocked the snowman's safari hat straight off its head and up into the branches of an evergreen tree. Paul was the first one to look away.

"Oh, well," He said. "What's that saying about buying straw hats in winter?"

Paul patted at the snowman's naked head while Noah made a face. "I don't think that's what it's supposed to mean, Paul."

"Yeah? Why don't you go get it, then?" Paul gestured up at the hat stuck a good ten feet off the ground on the needles of a droopy branch weighed down with snow.

Noah pointed at the location of the hat and raised his eyebrows skeptically at Paul. "From up there?"

Paul smacked his shoulder. "Yeah! What? What's the matter?" At Noah's hesitation, Paul made a show of readjusting the waist of his jeans. "Hey! Look, Rookie, if you don't think you can get it—"

"Rookie?" Noah scoffed. "You didn't even call me a rookie when I _was_ the rookie!"

"Well no, not to your face," Paul casually shrugged. "That would just be rude."

Noah barked out a surprised laugh. "Oh, yeah, _that_ would be rude."

"I've got an idea," Paul suddenly declared. "Hey, Bea! Come here."

Bea lifted her head from where she'd fallen down in a pile of snow to watch the flakes in the sky slowly drift to the ground. "What?"

"Come over here, we need your help," Paul insisted, giving her an encouraging wave. Bea quickly climbed to her feet and picked her way over the snow to join the taller men. "Stand over there, Noah."

"Under the tree?" Noah asked, no small degree of reluctance and suspicion in his voice. Paul motioned at him impatiently. He thought he could see where Paul was headed with this, but he also knew Bea would get a kick out of it. It was a bit of harmless fun, he decided, and with that last thought he strode across the white ground to stand under the branch with the hat hanging over him.

Paul scooped up some snow and packed it into his hands. "You ever throw a snowball?"

Bea frowned up at him. "A what?"

Paul's impish smile was contagious. He clapped her gently on the shoulder. "You know something? I'm glad we invited you guys out here. I probably won't get the opportunity to see another kid play in the snow for the first time."

Bea didn't know what to say so she just offered him a grin. "This place is awesome," She informed him.

"Hell yeah it is." The older man placed a large ball of snow into her glove. "Throw it at the branch."

"What?" She looked at the branch. "Why?"

"To knock the hat down," Paul explained. "Look, don't worry. Your dad is right over there to catch it."

"Just—try not to hit me!" Noah called. The idea was planted, and Bea grinned widely. She aimed for his head. Her shot went wide, and clipped the edge of the branch. It was enough.

Bea gasped and covered her mouth as a large portion of snow was knocked from the evergreen tree and dumped over her father and most of the ground surrounding him. Paul was almost on his knees from laughing so hard, and Bea was caught between joining in his delight and running for cover in the cabin.

When Noah sat up, he spat snow from his mouth and let loose a string of curses that she had never heard from him before.

"Run, kid!" Paul hollered through his mirth. She squealed loudly and turned to flee, Paul's thunderous laughter echoing her all the way.

A rather sizeable snowball that caught him right on the ear cut off his next yell and Paul flinched from the force of it. When he turned, he saw Noah roll behind a tree trunk and yell for Bea to cover him.

Bea stopped her waddle run through the snow to turn and see what was going on. She and Paul locked gazes and for a second nothing happened. Flakes drifted towards the ground over them. Music played from inside the cabin.

Bea dove for a tree. For almost an hour they battled, Noah and Bea ganging up against Paul who loved every second of their game possibly even more than they did, until Lenore came onto the porch to call them inside to eat.

After dinner, Bea had decided that snow was the most magical thing she'd ever experienced and she needed to introduce Stiles to the wonders of the stuff herself. She asked Claudia and her mother had simply informed her that if Bea was willing and able to get Stiles dressed then they'd all go out to share his first experience with snow. It was getting dark fast and Bea knew if they waited too much longer he'd have to go to bed, so she felt there was some amount of pressure behind the matter.

She'd already bundled him in his thick coat and shoved a wool hat over his head, and she was now trying the same thing that both Lenore and Claudia had failed at. Putting on his snow boots.

Every time she'd grab him round the ankle and pull at his boot, he'd start furiously kicking his leg. Stiles was angry and when he yelled it was obvious he was trying to form some sort of coherent exclamation at her, but the clearest he could manage to make was a huffy raspberry spat from his lips and a wail sharp enough to shatter the windows.

"Stiles!" She yelled over his irate squalling. "Shut the fuck up and hold still!"

The adults went stock-still behind them. Claudia slowly turned to look at Noah, who was glaring daggers at Paul where the older man flinched at a sharp smack on the back of his head from Lenore.

Before anything else could be said, Bea lightly cuffed Stiles on the shoulder with the boot and in response, he threw his head back and squealed out an incensed, "Beaaaaa!"

For the rest of their lives, it would be a story that their parents shared again and again, recanted with equal parts amusement and frustration because neither of their children's first word had been Mama or Dada. Instead, Stiles' had been Bea's name screeched in irritation, and years before, Bea's had been a cheerful 'bye-bye' waved at Noah after Claudia informed her to say goodbye to her father because 'mommy's going to have to kill him.'

That first word opened the floodgates for Stiles' speech capabilities. Under the Stilinskis' persistent tutelage, the toddler shortly mastered many phrases and it didn't take long before he and his sister could argue in earnest. She would do her best to teach him things that she thought he should know, and though Stiles wasn't always receptive, and oftentimes the lesson that he learned from her was pretty far off of what she'd intended, Stiles cared a lot about what his sister thought and he found it was impossible to refuse her.

Of everyone in the family, Bea treated Stiles like an equal from day one, even when he was a baby who couldn't stand to wear his shoes. They understood each other in ways that no one else ever would. Noah and Claudia cultivated their relationship at every given opportunity. Even if the siblings thought their parents didn't know about their misadventures, they did, and they enjoyed the camaraderie that flourished between their children because they knew it would last them for the rest of their lives.

Even if the children felt like they had no one else, they would always know they had each other.

* * *

 **Late December 2011**

 **Beacon Hills, CA**

 **Bea's Car**

"This is fine. This is gonna be fine." Her fingers tapped an anxious rhythm over the steering wheel and she cleared her throat and glanced at herself in the rear view mirror. "Woo! Christmas. Late Christmas. Family reunion!"

The long drive had offered her a long opportunity to rehearse what she would say in her head, and just when she would convince herself that she had everything under control she would picture her brother's face and her resolve would crumple like a house of cards.

It was cold out—cold enough that when she left her apartment this morning she was struck with an irrational fear that her pipes would freeze while she was away—but there was, of course, no trace of snow to be had in the warmer climate of her hometown.

Driving through the familiar streets was surreal. Things were the same… and altogether different. The sensation would be a foretelling of what was to follow, but for the moment all Bea was conscious of was the recognizable road forking off of Route 23 that led to Riley Bridge.

Her foot ground into the gas pedal just a little too hard, and the turbo in her compact car made a high-pitched whistle that lit a smile on her face and soothed her shadowy mind. She looked back to the road just in time to see the vehicle ahead of her change lanes without signaling.

Though she slammed on her brakes, it made no difference. Physics was in complete control then, and she watched the subsequent sequence of events in slow motion. The taillight of their truck smacked into the headlight of her car and she felt the vehicle lurch as it spun, the tires skidding and the trees and highway turning with a nauseating effect.

Just as fast as it started, it was over. Her ears rung and her heart raced in her throat. She gripped the steering wheel with knuckles that were white enough to make the grim reaper jealous. Adrenaline left her mind hazy and befuddled and for a moment that didn't seem to end, she just sat in a daze.

The door of the truck creaked as it popped open. She saw a tall man climb out and take swinging, determined strides to her car. Bea didn't think to move until he pointed at her through the windshield. Her heart spasmed and she gasped.

With shaking fingers, she put her car in park and reached over to hit the button that rolled down her window at the same time. Distantly, Bea found it strangely comical to make the man wait for her window to finish rolling down before he could speak to her.

"Are you blind!?" Was the first thing he yelled at her.

She blinked at him. "Um…" Obviously not? "A-Are you okay?"

"No I'm not okay!" He burst, gesturing wildly to his truck. "That's a new truck!"

Even as he said it, the rusted chrome bumper scraped metallically and sunk another inch lower. The red plastic taillight was totally busted, revealing the pale, naked metal insides, and she knew her headlight likely looked a similar sorry sight.

"It's… new?"

Admittedly, her words were provocative. But in her defense, she was in shock. At least, that's what she told the deputy ten minutes later, long after the conversation had devolved.

The deputy had made quick work of the scene and flagged what traffic had backed up behind them to go into the grass median and pull around, since Route 23 was one of the least travelled highways in the area. She stared at the officer, who she absolutely did not recognize even a little bit.

"I'm sorry—" The young deputy shook his head and squinted his eyes to take a closer look at her. Bea unconsciously leaned away from his scrutiny. "You just look oddly familiar to me..."

"Really?" Bea asked, tilting her head. She looked at his badge and the nametag on his khaki, starched uniform. Parrish. They definitely hadn't met. Her eyes flicked back up to his. "Hmm."

He studied her for another second, and just as he seemed to want to say something the radio on his shoulder crackled. Parrish tore his eyes away from her and turned to relay whatever information had been requested of him—no doubt regarding the state of the scene.

There came a quick response and Parrish stepped away to go into more detail with dispatch. The air was cold and Bea shivered as she rubbed her arms through her thin jacket. As one of the cars went over into the median, the driver took a moment to spare her a scathing glare and Bea smiled sarcastically to herself as she watched them pull away. Her grin dropped and she shook her head.

"What do you look so god damn worried about?" Growled the burly man who owned the truck. He paced in front of it like a Rottweiler guarding a charred rawhide bone. "People fall all over themselves to help girls like you. _Channing Tatum_ over there can't keep his fucking eyes off you."

Sure enough, Parrish kept sending wayward glances Bea's way. Not in a leering manner, as this fine gentlemen was so gracefully implying, but in a confused way, like he was trying to place her.

"My truck is fucked and my insurance rate's gonna blow up faster than the Hidenburg thanks to this! Meanwhile I bet your premium wasn't even as high as mine—just because you have tits!"

Someone's bitter. Bea sighed. "Burned," she muttered as another car bumbled around them.

"What?" He stepped closer to tilt his ear at her in the hostile way that people use to convey they didn't like what they heard the first time.

Bea brushed a strand of hair out of her face. "The Hindenburg didn't explode, it caught fire and crashed."

"Who the fuck cares!?" He jabbed an angry finger at his truck. "My truck didn't explode either! Think the insurance company will give a shit if I tell them that?"

"Yes," She agreed without missing a beat. The deputy was starting to notice the man's raised voice and he shut his car and came towards them. "That's why your rate will increase."

If it were possible for man to combust, this one would have at that moment. Luckily, it isn't, and he became distracted anyway when he looked past Parrish and caught sight of a tow truck pulling on to the side of the road near his vehicle. The man took off without a backwards glance.

Parrish came to her side with his hand on his hip. Bea watched as the man stomped up to the tow truck and started yelling at the driver, concluding that they seemed to know each other by the way the driver quickly hopped down from his seat to go look at the damage the truck sustained.

They freaked out over the cosmetic damage that the tailgate suffered and the man who owned the truck swung an angry arm in her direction. The tow-truck driver looked away from her and seemed to direct the conversation towards where they should hook the truck to pull it, since the tailgate wasn't an option, and all at once the truck owner pulled his attention off of Bea and focused it on the truck.

"I'm gonna miss him," Bea absently muttered to no one in particular, and Parrish eyed her like he couldn't tell if she was joking or not. She snorted at her own joke and his radio buzzed again.

Parrish went to his cruiser to retrieve an accident report and Bea sighed and leaned against the door of her car. She closed her eyes to picture the expression her dad would make once he found out what had happened, and what he would say if he knew how poorly she'd reacted in a crisis. Instead of using the skills that Sheriff had drilled into her from day one on how to talk to an irrationally angry individual, she'd clammed up and let slip the first unfiltered, frank thought that sprang to mind.

"Deputy Parrish!" Bea called, and before she lost her nerve she jogged over to meet him at the open door of his cruiser. He stood straight and she tucked hair behind her ear and opened her mouth. Her fist went to her open palm and she made a noise of hesitation before cracking her knuckles. "Uhhhh, listen… I think my car is probably acceptable, right? Wouldn't you say?"

They turned to look at the damage in question. The headlight was indeed as bad off as Bea had imagined, and then some. The nose and hood of the car surrounding the headlight had caved in and the metal of the hood looked crumpled, like an elephant had given it its best kick. Or like a truck had smacked it with its taillight.

"Acceptably impaired," Parrish declared. He looked at her from the corner of his eyes before he looked at her straight on. "…I hope you're not thinking of leaving the scene of an accident."

Bea scoffed loudly. "What? No! That would be ridiculous. Actually, that would be a misdemeanor. Hey, how much do tow trucks charge?"

"Around sixty dollars, maybe? But insurance should cover that," He reasoned. "Are you sure you're not considering trying to leave?"

She wanted to ask if it usually deterred criminals when he asked them directly about the crime he suspected they might be contemplating committing. But, that seemed unwise, and given that there was neither alcohol nor adrenaline to impede her judgment she simply gestured in frustration and said, "I'm just… trying to figure out what to say to my dad."

Parrish relaxed. "I'm sure he'll just be glad you're unharmed."

She chuckled and watched as another cruiser from the Sheriff's department approached the scene. Through the windshield, she saw her dad, who had certainly gained a few grey hairs since last she'd seen him.

"Yeah, he'll feel less guilty for smacking me upside the head," she muttered, and Parrish politely chuckled but didn't catch on straight away. It wasn't until Sheriff Stilinski got out and stood with his arm draped over the open door of his car to stare at Bea for a long moment before Parrish registered that they knew each other.

"You are in so much trouble," Sheriff told her, and a smile stretched across his aging face.

She threw her head back and laughed. Without wasting another second, she stepped around Parrish, who watched like he'd entered the Twilight Zone as she ran to Sheriff Stilinski and threw her arms around him, and he caught her and laughed into her hair.

"It was supposed to be a surprise!" She hurriedly defended. "I mean, like, a good surprise." She would never admit that she didn't call simply because she hadn't known what to say.

Bea went to pull away but Sheriff's arms tightened to pull her into a more complete bear hug and he held her to him like he hadn't in years. Bea frowned and returned her hands to his back, properly settling her cheek against his shoulder.

"It is a good surprise," He told her, as he reached up to gently hold the back of her head and pet her hair, like he used to when she was a little girl. "Bea…" His sigh felt heavier than it had since Claudia died and Bea was more than a little alarmed.

"Hi, dad." She forced a grin through the confused prickle of pain in her heart and cleared her throat as they finally pulled away. When she cast a somewhat self-conscious look in Parrish's direction, she was relieved to find that he'd busied himself with filling out the accident report against the hood of his cruiser—though there was no doubt in her mind that he'd been paying careful attention to their emotional reunion.

Sheriff suddenly cuffed her over the back of the head.

Bea ducked away with a cry of indignation. "Hey!"

He gestured at the car. "What the hell happened?"

Clinging to the assumption Parrish had made earlier, she said, "Isn't the important part that I'm okay? Does it really matter?"

Sheriff stared at her for a few moments before he turned to his deputy. "Are you finished with the report?"

Parrish cleared his throat and smoothed down his shirt. He made a vague gesture with a pen. "Just gotta dot the I's and cross the T's…" His gaze stuck between Bea and her father, and it was obvious that he was dying to comment on the fact that Bea was his daughter. "Now, is Bea short for something? Or…"

She stepped forward. "It's B–E–A—"

Sheriff strode over to snatch the report from Parrish. "Give me that," He said in an annoyed tone, and the deputy could say little as he was pushed aside.

As her father scanned the report and scratched in the details of her name and the required information about her, an awkward silence befell them. She crossed her arms and the wind blew against them, sweeping her hair off her shoulders. She looked to Parrish. "Been a deputy long?"

He shifted on his feet and shrugged. "Just a few weeks now."

"And you're already out by yourself?" She made an impressed face and nodded. "Must be pretty good."

He shrugged again. "So what brings you to town? I can't imagine you'll stay for long. Sheriff Stilinski made it sound like you were a big deal at the paper you write for, so…"

Bea shifted and looked at the back of her dad's head. "He did, huh? Well, that's actually part of the reason I'm here." At the Sheriff's interested gaze, she quickly backpedaled. "But you know what? Let's not get into all that yet. I just want to get home."

"Well, the tow truck is on its way. I called one in for you a little earlier; it should be here soon," Parrish explained, easily shrugging off her fumbling change of subject with the ease and calm nature of a man who would make a good Sheriff.

Like her father, Parrish seemed to have the ability to put people at ease, and by the time he was finished breaking the news that not only would her car likely be out of commission for the next few days, but the man in the truck may also kick up some sort of fuss and try to sue her for something or another, Bea found that she wasn't as panicked or upset as she normally would have been.

"You're saying he failed to utilize his turn signal?" Sheriff asked.

She nodded. "He just came right into my lane and I didn't have the chance to slow down in time to make room for him."

"Well if you were speeding then he must have been flying," Sheriff noted, and Bea suffered the weighted disapproval that radiated from both officers flanking her. She resisted the urge to squirm. "As the Sheriff, obviously I'll point out that if you'd been going the speed limit then you could've avoided this whole thing. As your father, I'm hoping that maybe losing your car for the next few weeks will shed a few pounds off that lead foot of yours."

She looked at Parrish with an unimpressed expression. With a small grin, she looked at her dad. "Let's not forget who taught me to drive."

Parrish snorted and immediately covered it with a cough when the Sheriff glared at him. The young deputy made a show of turning away to gather the report and retreated to the safety of his own cruiser, effectively abandoning Bea with her father.

"You know I wasn't joking, right?"

She rolled her eyes. "Dad, it happens to everyone! The speed limit through here is—"

"Not about that," He cut off. Sheriff put his hands on his hips. "When I said you were in trouble, I was talking about Stiles."

Bea looked anywhere but at her dad's face. She cleared her throat and kicked at some of the shattered plastic from her headlight as she shifted on her feet. Parrish opened his door and got into his cruiser.

She looked towards the road that led to Riley Bridge. "It's… it's not like I planned for things to happen this way," She quietly admitted. "I never wanted to stay away for so long. Things just got away from me."

"Sounds like you're making excuses," Sheriff pointed out, with little to no sympathy in his tone. Bea supposed it was to be expected. After all, she was going on twenty-four, not sixteen, and if she was going to make adult-sized mistakes, she deserved adult-sized reactions from her family. "I get it, Bea. I do. I guess it's too late to change things now. Let's just get home."

The tow truck came ten minutes later. Once all the necessary arrangements were made, Parrish assured Sheriff Stilinski that he could go on home to visit with Bea. He would take care of the paperwork. It took very little convincing and soon enough the cruiser pulled into their driveway.

"It looks the exact same," Bea told Sheriff, who had her suitcase in his hand where he stood beside her. He looked up at the house and sighed, and it sounded like that same heavy, tired sigh he'd made earlier when they hugged. Bea watched him curiously.

"I painted the shudders last summer," He informed her. She turned and saw how they were a fresher shade of green than she had first noticed. "And the tire swing is gone."

"Aww!" She loudly whined. Bea rushed across the sidewalk to hold her hands up in sorrow at the tall tree in their yard, the branch that used to hold the rope attached to the aforementioned tire-swing looking offensively barren and stripped. "Not the tire swing! What happened to you!?" She cried.

"Stiles," Sheriff supplied with a snort. At her distraught, questioning gaze, he waved her off. "Don't ask. It's a long story."

Bea dropped her arms and hung her head. "A story for another day," She promised the tree. "Your sacrifice was not in vain."

Sheriff rolled his eyes. "Alright, come on, Dances With Wolves. Let's get you out of the cold. Your lips are turning blue."

"Are they?" She touched at them as they stepped onto the porch and Sheriff unlocked the door. "My face went numb about forty minutes ago. Am I smiling?"

She dropped her hands and stretched her lips, and snorted when Sheriff flinched at the expression she created. He scoffed. "Ugh, get inside, before I smack you over the head again."

Bea stepped through the door he held open and moved out of his way. The warmth and familiar scent of her home washed over her cold, tired body, and all at once the wind and the noises from outside were shut out by the closed door and she was faced with her childhood. A flood of memories flashed before her eyes and she blinked and sighed.

"Are you hungry?" He asked.

"Oh, no, I grabbed dinner with some friends before I left this afternoon." She paused and looked in the living room. "Is that a new television?"

Sheriff glanced over his shoulder. He pulled his brown jacket off and hung it on the coat rack by the door. "We've had it since Easter."

Bea looked back at the sleek, flat screen on the familiar wooden entertainment center. She could still see the plethora of DVDs that lined the shelves through the glass, and noted that the stockpile seemed to have grown since last she looked. "…It's nice."

Sheriff picked up her bags again.

"Oh!" She sprung to his side and grabbed the black strap of the gym bag, carefully detangling it from the suitcase to clutch it protectively. "I need this one."

"Are you…" Sheriff seemed to hesitate, his eyes on the suitcase and bag. He looked up at her. "Are you planning to stay for a while?"

Bea looked over to the Christmas tree that still stood in the corner, with a couple of wrapped gifts still sitting underneath and a card that lay on top of the largest one. She moved deeper into the living room. Lifting the gym bag, she rested it across the back of the couch and unzipped it. "Yeah. I'm not exactly sure how long yet, though," She explained as she opened the bag to paw through the contents.

Sheriff lingered in the doorway behind her. "How long? Is… did something happen?"

He sounded like he was expecting the worst. Bea pulled out a small, brightly wrapped gift from her bag and turned to take a close look at her dad. He seemed guarded, like there was something he didn't quite want to say. She frowned.

Bea ran her fingers through her hair. "Nothing happened. It's for work, actually. There's a story my boss wants me to do—it deals with… well, do you really want to go into it now? Because if we do I'll want to probably want to record your raw reaction, and we'll have to sit down, and it'll be this whole thing—if you want to we can but I think I'd rather leave it till tomorrow…"

Sheriff's interest was piqued. "Are _you_ okay, though?"

She offered him a gentle smile and went to take his shoulder in her hand. "Dad, I'm fine. Seriously. It's just work stuff. Promise."

Some of the tension drained from his tired face. "Good," He nodded. "What's that?"

They looked down at the wrapped gift that she held out to him. "Merry Christmas!"

"Wow, the wrapping actually doesn't look like a three year old did it," He noted with an impressed tone. Sheriff snickered at the swat that Bea rewarded him with.

"Yeah? I'm sure the lady at the store who did it would appreciate such a generous compliment," she laughed.

"Ahhh," Sheriff nodded in understanding. "That sounds more like it."

"Don't get too excited," She cautioned. "I had to buy for six other people who all expected gifts that cost at least twenty bucks a piece, so I was on a budget when I picked yours out."

"You've finally aged into adulthood," Sheriff lamented, tearing at the gift wrap. Bea asked what he meant. "You gave more presents than you're gonna get," He explained with a wag of his finger, and then he saw the gift and he made a noise of appreciation. "A flask!"

She smiled. "This is a long-term investment. Because now I can always depend on you to share a drink with me wherever we go."

He laughed. "I love it. Thank you, Bea."

"Stiles…" She pulled a gift bag out of the bag on the couch and looked around. "I'm so excited to give him his gift." She leaned closer and lowered her voice, cupping her mouth to whisper it like a secret. "It's a hidden wall safe that's disguised as an outlet. It came with a little saw and everything, so he can install it himself."

Sheriff made a face.

Bea beamed. "I know," She nodded with her eyebrows raised. "He's gonna flip out. Where is he? The jeep was in the driveway so I know he's home."

"His room, I think," Sheriff said, as she immediately moved to stride down the hallway. Sheriff opened his mouth to warn her but she didn't give him time.

She knocked loudly on the door, casting Sheriff an excited grin as she waited. Muffled movements came from inside. She heard a thud, and then the door opened. A flurry of emotions crossed her brother's face. Surprise, first and foremost. He even took a step back.

Bea opened her arms for a hug. "Honey, I'm home!" He didn't move. He just gawked and they took each other in. He had really grown into himself—everything was a little more filled out from the last time she'd seen him on video chat on the computer. His jawline was more defined, there were dark circles under his eyes and his hair had sprouted into something that looked style-able, no pun intended.

Once the shock wore off, his expression switched to something unreadable. He looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. She would have expected him to at least say something by now, but he just stood there, like he was looking at a ghost and he didn't know what to say.

"Yeesh," She tried to joke, keeping her tone upbeat. "Who died?"

He slammed the door in her face. Her hair blew back and the thump against the doorframe reverberated in her ears. Bea dropped her arms in disbelief. She turned to look at Sheriff, who was wincing from his viewpoint at the end of the hall.

"What?!" Bea asked. "What did I say?"

Sheriff loudly cleared his throat and gestured for her to come away from the door. "Maybe we should go talk in the living room…"

Bea frowned but stepped away reluctantly. "Um, okay?"

* * *

"Holy shit!" She yelled, rocketing off of the couch. "Someone actually died!"

"Shhh!" Sheriff hissed, and they both turned to look in the direction of the hall. It was deadly quiet from that side of the house, and after they confirmed that there was no movement Sheriff urged her to keep her voice lower.

Bea paced back and forth in front of the new television, rubbing her cheeks with her hands. "I'm such a freaking asshole! I had no idea—I—I can't believe this!"

"It was a shock for everyone," Sheriff grimly nodded. Bea took a breath and ran her hands over her face.

"So—you're saying… it was a mugging?"

He nodded.

Bea expelled the breath and looked away, her mind racing. "Holy shit," she muttered again, quieter this time. She looked back at him as a thought struck her. "Was he there? I mean, did he see it happen?"

Sheriff looked away. "I think he was." As Bea slowly went to sit back on the couch to digest the news, he continued to fill in details. "It happened fast. They didn't even get the chance to see who it was. No one could give a good description."

"Really?" She wondered aloud. "But… I mean, you have a suspect, right?"

Sheriff stared at some middle-distance, his eyes unfocused.

"I mean… how many people were there? Stiles and Scott, right? There are two witnesses right there. You're saying neither of them could tell you anything useful?"

"They wore a mask, Bea," He told her. She sighed in frustration and rubbed her aching eyes. "Right now it's an open case," Sheriff deflected, coming back to himself as he shook off whatever thoughts haunted him. She knew what that meant. 'Open case' is code for no more details. Bea was noticing that she wasn't the only one with shadows looming over her anymore. She'd seen them in Stiles' face and now she saw them in her father's face, too. It made her heart ache. "I'm sorry. I should have warned you. I should have said something, but I wanted to see what he would do when he saw you. I just… I was hoping…"

Bea shook her head. "It's not your fault. I should've called more. I should've been here."

"You have a life now, Bea," Sheriff reassured her. "We can't blame you for that."

She looked away. Somehow, she wasn't so sure. "That's not really the point, is it?"

He said nothing. The house felt oddly still. "You're here now," He noted. "That's all that matters. Trust me. Stiles will feel the same way, once he readjusts. He's got a lot going on right now. But… I think he'll open up to you."

"He literally just slammed a door in my face, dad," She scoffed, gesturing over her shoulder. "Somehow I don't think he feels like talking to me."

Sheriff stood from the couch. "Give it time," He advised, sounding so sure of himself. "You have a way with him that I just…" He stopped and shook his head. "It's good that you're back."

Bea stayed silent, because it felt more like the opposite was true. The second she crossed back into Beacon Hills' border, she _literally_ crashed. And now it felt like there was a whole lifetime of trauma and sorrow and bitterness that separated her and her brother, and their seven-year age gap had never felt so expansive before. She's finally home, and yet she's never felt so far apart from him.

"What do you say to breaking in that flask of yours?" She asked.

Sheriff turned away from the dining room and thought it over for a second. "It would be nice to crack open that bottle of whiskey I was saving."

She stood from the couch with her arms out in a relieved sigh. "We are _so_ related."


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: This is a pretty long one guys, but things are picking up! Another inadequate thank you to _Hurricane.'97_ as always, and shoutout to _Marloweee1856_ and _queenbee014_ for their reviews! Keep them coming, guys! There's a lot happening in this chapter and I'd love to hear what you think of it all!

* * *

 **Late December 1999**

 **Beacon Hills, CA**

 **The Stilinskis' Living Room**

The television sat in the corner of the room on top of the wooden entertainment center. The screen was shiny and clean, and it reflected the scene before it perfectly.

There on the couch crouched a girl, no older than the age of ten, with her socked feet on the cushions and her fingers at either side of her head to form horns. She looked all around the living room, searching for something that moved just out of sight.

Little eyes watched her from below the coffee table. On hands and knees the figure crawled, slowly, with breathy giggles of anticipation huffing through the still room. A toy truck was accidentally knocked forward and the girl spun around on the couch, reared her head back and made a loud, cawing roar.

The boy sprung up from behind the coffee table and put his arms out to growl menacingly. "Prepare to die," He grumbled in his best throaty monster voice.

Keeping to her character, the girl let loose a rumbling cry of distress and bounced over the cushions in a heavy wobble to flee her little brother. Stiles flapped his arms and cawed as he zoomed around the coffee table and chased after her, and when he caught her around the shoulders she mimed bucking him with her finger-horns.

"Someone's excited to go to the museum tomorrow," Claudia warmly grinned. She stood at the edge of the dining room with her husband at her back, his hands looping around her waist. He rested his chin on her shoulder.

"Really?" Noah pretended to wonder. "Now who could you be referring to? I definitely don't have a daughter who's been spouting off facts about dinosaurs nonstop for the last week straight." He turned his head on her shoulder to frown at her. "Did you know Iguanodon means 'iguana tooth'?"

Claudia snorted and nodded with a fake frown on her face, hugging his arms closer to her waist. "Yeah, I might've heard that somewhere recently."

Bea pointed at Stiles. "That's right! And you're supposed to be a Deinonychus, Mickey!"

"Raaaaawh!" He responded, flapping his arms.

"They don't have wings!" Bea reached out to gently push him and he lost balance and flopped back on the couch.

"She can pronounce words like Deinonychus, but somehow Mieczyslaw escapes her," Claudia chuckled with a shake of her head. Bea whipped around to glare at her parents.

"I can _hear_ you, you know!"

Stiles put his hands on his hips. "Bea-Bea, I thought you said Dino-kusses are the reason that scientists think birds used to be dinosaurs?"

Bea turned around and pet her little brother's short, buzz-cut hair, and he batted her hand away. "They are," She said.

"Then how come they can't have wings?" He grumbled, crossing his arms. "I want to fly."

Claudia stepped out from her husband's arms and went to prowl like a dinosaur behind the couch, her hands lifted in claws as she said, "My little Mieczyslaw can be a flying dino-kuss if he wants!"

Stiles giggled ferociously as Claudia lunged her hands forward to scoop him into her arms and carry him through the air, so he could stretch his arms out like he was flying.

"He can be a little dinosaur hybrid! He can have wings…" She dropped him low to the ground to pretend he was swooping down and let him snag up the overturned toy truck from the carpet. "And he can have sharp teeth like an alligator! Rarghh!"

Claudia pretended to snap her teeth at Stiles and he mimicked her. She pulled him close to squeeze him in a hug and smashed her cheek against his. They played like this for a little longer until eventually Claudia settled with Stiles in her lap in the chair beside the couch. Noah came to join Bea on the opposite cushion, picking up a pillow to bop her over the head with it.

She laughed and stole the pillow away from him.

"You know why I like dinosaurs?" Claudia's children both shook their heads and she gently rocked Stiles side to side in her arms. "Because they were real life monsters that existed thousands and thousands of years ago. Some of them had tails longer than the length of this house end to end."

Stiles and Bea looked around with wide eyes.

"Sometimes they had clubs on the ends of their tail, to defend themselves against the more aggressive dinosaurs. And some scientists say they might have lived for up to two hundred years at a time."

"Whoa!" Stiles exclaimed. Claudia smiled and held him closer.

"You make them sound so scary," Bea curiously noted. "But I've always just thought they were cool."

"They can be both cool and scary, can't they?" Noah reasoned, and raised his eyebrows at the thoughtful expression on Bea's face.

"Dinosaurs are still not fully understood," Claudia continued. "We find their bones and compare them to the animals we know today and there's nothing quite like them left anymore. So we try to piece together their biology and their history, because it's important to learn about things you might not understand. Every monster has a story, Bea," Claudia quietly said in the lowlight of their living room, with Stiles cradled in her lap. "Remember that tomorrow at the museum."

Stiles let loose a wide, wide yawn, and Claudia and Noah both laughed at him.

"My little monster," She cooed. "Who is staying up way too late past his bedtime!"

As Claudia carried a sleepy Stiles down the hall to his room, Bea settled back into the couch and tried not to let her own eyes droop with drowsiness. "Deinonychus dinosaurs do not have _wings_ ," She pouted to no one in particular.

Noah sat beside her on the couch and asked her to tell him about the deinonychus, and he listened closely and commented periodically about the wolf-sized dinosaur that she described to him. He enjoyed watching how her eyes lit up and asked if she wanted to be a paleontologist when she grew up.

"What's that?" She frowned.

"They study dinosaur bones for a living, so they get to see them up close and personal." Noah rested his head against his fist and studied his daughter. "Is that something you think you'd like to do?"

Bea considered it. "I'd rather hunt for the real monsters," She said. "Like you do."

Noah felt a jerk of surprise and it took a moment for him to recover. He looked at Bea closely and offered her a smile, though he felt a peculiar sense of dread in his chest at the thought of his daughter putting her life on the line every day like he did.

He pulled her head over to plant a kiss on top of it and advised her to go to bed. "You don't want to be so tired tomorrow that you miss out on the good stuff at the museum, do you?"

She sprung from the couch. "I'm going to get everything ready! Tell mom to put my permission slip in my bag, okay?"

As she passed Stiles' room, she ducked her head inside to say just that to Claudia. Claudia turned her head where she was bent over Stiles' form to tuck him in, and she pressed a finger to her lips. "I will, baby. Go to bed. Early day tomorrow."

* * *

Bea slumped against the hard chair in the office of the elementary school with her arms crossed and her chin almost touching her chest. It felt like the end of the world to the young girl, who had discovered within the first few moments of entering the classroom that her permission slip was nowhere to be had.

So there she sat, waiting impatiently for her dad to arrive to come take her home to retrieve the slip and twenty dollars in cash to attend the museum. There was only forty minutes left before the bus was set to depart. It may as well have already left, for the all disappointment Bea felt.

He came hurrying through the doors of the office all dressed in his tan colored police uniform, and Bea was already on her feet and halfway to him before he could so much as step towards the front desk. "Let's go!" She urged.

"Uh—oh…" Noah lifted a hand to the receptionist, who waved him off knowingly, and he followed his daughter out the door and across the sidewalk. "Bea! Slow down!"

"We can't! The bus is leaving soon! We need to hurry!"

"Bea, trust me, I'll get you back to the house with plenty of time to spare. I really shouldn't have left work but apparently your mother isn't answering the phone today." He took her shoulder and slowed her frantic pace as they crossed the parking lot.

When they reached his cruiser, he opened the door for her and made sure she had safely climbed into the seat and buckled her seatbelt before he went around to get into his side.

"When we get home, you go in and grab the permission slip. I have the money. It'll go faster if I wait in the car."

Bea waved him off with an absent nod, watching each landmark of the familiar route to her house pass as she practically vibrated in her seat.

Five agonizingly long minutes later, Bea popped the door open and bounded over the walk, up the steps and barreled into the house. She didn't stop to close the door behind her.

"Oh!" The sound of her mother's voice stopped her in her tracks. Bea turned, ready to inform her just what brought her home from school without warning, but she stopped when she saw Claudia holding a spoon in the dining room like she'd come out of the kitchen to see who'd let themselves into their house. "Well hello. You must be a little lost. What are you doing here?"

Something about the tone of her voice was off, but Bea ignored it. "Ha ha, very funny! I seriously don't have time! I need the slip!"

Claudia passed around the child to peer through the open door. She spotted the cruiser and understanding seemed to flood her. "Ohh! I see. Noah brought you here."

"Yes, I'm kind of in a hurry here! Dad needs to get to work! Where's the slip? What did you do with it?" Bea went to the kitchen to look over the counter, which was a mess of various ingredients. There was a skillet out and the oven was on, making it clear that Claudia had been in the midst of preparing breakfast.

Claudia lingered in the doorway. "Your dad is waiting for you?" She asked. "Where is he?"

"He's…" Bea turned and frowned at her mom. She'd just looked outside and seen the cruiser. "Mom?"

Claudia's face fell and she grasped the spoon in her hands. "Ohhh, honey…" She turned her saddened gaze off of Bea to look at the cruiser through the open door. "What's keeping Noah?" She wondered aloud.

"He's waiting!" Bea snapped. "I just said."

"Okay, okay, calm down," Claudia put a hand on her hip. "Now what is it that you need?"

"The permission slip!" Bea threw her hands up. "Hello? The trip? I asked you to put it in my bag!"

Claudia frowned and was about to say something when there were loud footsteps at the porch. Noah came into the living room with his hands out. "What's taking so long?"

Bea stared at her mother and watched as Claudia looked between Bea and Noah. Quietly, she said, "Just… lost…"

Noah focused on Bea. "You _lost_ the permission slip?"

Bea couldn't find her voice. She shook her head. Noah looked at his watch.

"You know what? Let's not worry about it. This was a waste of time. Let's just go to your teacher and have him print off another slip. I can sign a new one. Let's go."

Noah reached out to grab Claudia's shoulder and pulled her in to kiss her cheek. She blinked and offered him a smile, her eyes straying to Bea.

"Smells good!" Noah called as he ushered Bea out of the kitchen. "Come on, Bea, hop to."

Bea let herself be guided out of the kitchen and rode back to the school in complete silence. She tried to make sense of her mother's behavior, but she continued to come up at a loss.

The permission slip ended up taking a quick second to print out, and after Noah scribbled a signature he left Bea with a kiss on her head and told her he was excited to hear about the trip later on.

Through the whole trip at the museum Bea's mind wandered back to the confused way her mom had looked at her. It was an image she just couldn't shake. It felt almost as though Claudia hadn't recognized her, and Bea had the most awful feeling that for the briefest of moments that morning in the kitchen, something had been horribly wrong.

* * *

 **Late December 2011**

 **Beacon Hills, CA**

 **Stilinskis' Kitchen**

Despite the slight ache in her head Bea nursed thanks to the drinks she shared with her father last night, she had decided to get up early enough to prepare a large breakfast spread. She remembered the days she used to do this every morning. Arranged in a cluttered fashion across the counter were pancakes, sausage, bacon, eggs and fruit, with orange juice to drink for Stiles and coffee that was prepared long before Bea had awoken by their dad.

It had grown to become a comforting routine that Bea used to look forward to… most mornings. This morning in particular, however, was more difficult than she recalled. Bea scratched her head and looked around.

"Who moves the coffee mugs?" She wondered aloud. "The coffee mugs go in the cabinet over the coffee pot. This is common sense, I don't understand—" She reached into the cabinet to pull out the blender, which had mysteriously replaced the large collection of coffee mugs that used to occupy that shelf. "Who would do this?"

She closed the cabinet and turned to start a thorough sweep when Stiles stepped into the kitchen. They came up short to stare at each other. He wore a plain white t-shirt under a grey jacket and had a book bag over his shoulders.

Bea took the initiative to break the tense silence. "Hey! Stiles! Good morning! Hi!" Her hand twitched to move for a hug again but the expression on Stiles' face said that such a move would be met with hostility, so Bea merely busied herself with pouring him a glass of orange juice. She offered him another smile. "Headed to school?"

He looked away from her and took in the state of the kitchen, his eyes lingering on the food that was laid across the counter. "Obviously the holidays don't mean much to you but for the rest of the country, we're still on Christmas break. You made breakfast?"

Bea cleared her throat and took a large swig from the tart fruit juice she'd just poured; wishing desperately that it was a mimosa.

She sputtered into the drink and spilled some down her chin when a girl followed Stiles out of the hall and into the kitchen. Bea choked violently and she couldn't tear her watering eyes away from the tall girl with short, lightly curled hair who looked like a dog following its nose to the source of food.

The girl didn't so much as look in Bea's direction, focusing instead on the platter of meat. Bea gasped for breath and smacked her hand on the counter when Scott also emerged from the hallway, fully dressed in a jean jacket bulky, stylish boots, and looking to have aged at least ten years since she saw him at Stiles' last birthday dinner.

Scott immediately went to Bea's side and rested a hand on her back as she continued to choke. "Whoa! You okay?"

Bea pointed at the flask that still lay on the counter near the coffee pot. "Hand me that," she wheezed, and Scott hurried to retrieve it for her.

"Seriously!?" Stiles stopped hissing at Malia to drop her food so he could focus a judgmental sneer on Bea. "Liquor? You're drinking already? It's eight in the morning!"

"I'm choking, Stiles! I need a drink!" Her voice was small and raspy from choking, and Scott backed a step away in the direction of Stiles after he delivered Bea the flask.

Stiles pointed at the glass beside her hand. "You literally have juice _right_ there!"

Bea scrunched her nose. "Ew, no, I just choked on that!"

"So what!?"

The cap of the flask squeaked slightly as she unscrewed it and took a quick nip. There was a warm burn down her raw throat and she coughed a few more times, but shook it off. "Sorry," She shrugged.

Stiles rolled his eyes and went back to ignoring her. He picked up a pancake off the plate with his fingers and then swiped a piece of sausage out from under Malia's protective, growling grasp, tucking it into the pancake to form some sort of disgusting breakfast burrito.

Since it seemed like he was about to leave, Bea darted forward and called, "Wait! Where are the mugs? They're not in the cabinet—"

He left. She watched his retreating back until she couldn't see him and Scott touched her shoulder and offered her a small grin as he passed. "Good to see you, Bea."

"Yeah," She sighed and watched him follow Stiles down the hall to the dining room.

Behind her, Malia was opening the cabinet over the sink. Inside laid the collection of coffee mugs. Bea felt a stab of pain at the fact that this girl—who she still didn't even know the name of—knew where the mugs were in _her_ kitchen.

Malia pulled out the tallest travel mug she could find and went to stuff it with the rest of the bacon, making Bea scrunch her nose in disgust. She quickly masked the expression when Malia turned away from the platter to look up at her.

"Do you make this?" She pointed down at the platter and Bea hesitated only slightly before she nodded. "The bacon is too crunchy. You can have it."

Bea watched, speechless, as the girl arranged her features into something that might have been intended as a smile but looked much more like bared teeth, and put the mug down on the counter. She grabbed the platter, tucked it between her arm and her side, and carried it down the hall with her.

Bea stared at the travel mug full of pieces of bacon in dismay. She looked at the hallway where the girl had disappeared with the platter and flinched at the sound of the front door slamming.

The amount of breakfast that was left over was ridiculous. The skillet of eggs and the large bowl of fruit had gone totally untouched and the meat platter had been mutilated and stolen. She stood there and tried to process what just happened, when the shrill ringtone of her phone interrupted her thoughts.

Bea jumped and almost knocked the glass of orange juice across the counter. She scrambled to keep it upright and then fumbled for her phone. After a few stabs at the screen, she successfully accepted the call. "Hello?"

"Stilinski! It's Cooper."

She winced and turned around to bite at her thumb, her mind racing. "C-Cooper! Hey!"

"I was just calling for an update on what you've got going so far."

Nothing. Absolutely nothing, because yesterday she wrecked her car, and after that she was dealing with the repercussion of personal family drama and she hadn't had the time to give the story much thought. "Oh, it's just—right now I'm in the gathering stages. Mostly names and numbers…" At the ensuing silence on the other end, she impulsively added, "and scheduled interviews."

"Ah!" Cooper piped. "Interviews! There's a start. That's the answer I was looking for. With whom?"

Bea made a noise of hesitation. "Well…" She flicked at a piece of scrambled egg. "Obviously there's the sheriff and the deputy. They'll be a good source."

"Great, who else?"

She looked over the window, peering at the dreary morning sky. Bea scratched at her head. "The principal."

As soon as the words left her mouth, she winced. "The… principal? Of the high school?"

With her eyes closed, she said, "Yes. The principal of the high school. I mean, all of them have been teenagers so far, right? So I thought a good place to start would be the principal."

"Hmm," Cooper hummed thoughtfully as he considered it. "I can see where you're going with this. Actually, the school is really good. See if you can find students who might have been friends with the victims, try to get their opinions. Some of them might be interested in giving a statement, at least. And Stilinski?"

"Yeah?"

"I want you to get out to that bridge and get some pictures before they do something stupid, like block it off to the public."

There was a long pause as Bea considered the request, the image of the bridge coming to the front of her mind.

"Have they already blocked it off?" Cooper guessed, a note of impatience in his tone.

"No! No, no, that's great. That's a great idea."

Cooper paused again. "Okay. Good. Call me tomorrow to tell me what you get from the interviews."

After a few more comments about the paperwork she needed to start, Bea hung up and stared at the counter. What had she done? She'd panicked. She really needed to learn to get a grip and stop saying whatever sprang to mind. Improvising is clearly not her forte.

She needed plans—carefully considered, thought out plans, with back up plans for those plans. Not spontaneous proclamations that she can't even guarantee!

To try and salvage the situation Bea hurried out of the kitchen and across the house to her room. She retrieved her sparse notes and looked them over. With no other option available to her, Bea pulled up the internet on her phone and searched for the number of the high school.

Stiles had just finished saying they were on winter break. How could she expect to make any sort of meeting when they aren't even in session? She may have just catapulted herself into a pitfall.

To her great relief, someone answered after only a few rings. "Hello, you've reached Beacon Hills High School. This is Julie Lorenzo speaking."

Bea slipped into her work-persona, and offered an easy greeting. "Yes, hello, Julie, this is Bea Stilinski. I'm a journalist for a paper called The Daily Sun and I was hoping to get into contact with the principal to ask him a few questions about…" She ran her finger down the list on the notebook page in front of her. "Um, some of your former students. Andrew Brown, Mariah Miller, Tyler Jones and Casey Michaels to be exact."

"You're talking about those poor kids who committed suicide, aren't you?" The woman sounded at least mildly disgusted and Bea was quick to respond.

"Yes, ma'am. Our paper is going to be doing a piece on the subject and I just wanted to give the principal of the school the chance to have a voice in the article."

"A voice, huh?" As she said it, it became clear that the woman was not impressed and furthermore not in favor of such an article.

Bea bit her lip. "I'm planning to interview the local police department as well as some of the friends of the students. Ma'am, I have no intention of disrespecting the situation in any way. I understand how sensitive this topic is and that's why I'm trying to reach out to as many people as possible. I think it's important to give the community a voice in times like this, don't you?"

"Well, I guess it doesn't really matter what I think, does it?" She asked, and Bea pinched the bridge of her nose. "Principal Thomas is very busy right now preparing for the next semester, but I'll pass the information along and let him know you called. Can I take down your name and number?"

"Thank you, I really, really appreciate this."

"You're welcome," The woman politely tolerated. Bea relayed her contact information and hung up the phone with a sigh.

"Well," She said to the walls of her room. "That didn't go so well."

It was not unusual for people to become offended when she contacted them for interviews. It could've gone worse, she supposed, trying to remain optimistic. Occasionally all she has to go off of to locate a potential interviewee is a tip from someone else indicating where they work, and she had discovered that people feel insulted very quickly when a reporter showed up in the middle of their work day asking them to sit down and open up to a stranger about what might have been a very private and painful experience in their life, so that it could then be printed in black and white for the public at large to read. She couldn't blame them, but it was her job and from her perspective, it was frustrating and it left her feeling like an asshole.

Bea shook herself off and resigned herself to the fact that the principal may not be interested in having an interview, after all. She pushed the matter to the back of her mind and thought of what questions she could ask her dad and Deputy Parrish, who she felt confident would be receptive to sitting through an interview.

To pass some time she went and cleaned the mess she made in the kitchen. It was as she loaded up the dishwasher that her phone rang again, and she was surprised to find it was the number for the school. Only twenty minutes had passed since she and the receptionist hung up, and she was not expecting such a swift response.

"Hello, this is Bea Stilinski," she answered.

"Ms. Stilinski?" Said a deep voice in a clear English accent. "This is Principal Thomas. You called about an interview?"

Bea wiped her damp hands down her shirt and leaned against the counter. She braced herself for whatever came next. "Yes, about some former students of yours." Bea cast about for the best way to phrase what it was she was hoping to get from him, but found that it was unnecessary.

"Actually, I would be happy to talk with you about them. The students in this school matter a great deal to me and when we lose so many in such a short amount of time, the whole student body feels the impact."

Bea perked up. "Mind if I write that down?"

Principal Thomas laughed. "Not at all. I'll try to save the rest of my lines for the actual interview."

Bea felt her eyebrows twitch at the comment, and she scribbled the quote down into her notebook. "That's great, Principal Thomas. What day works for you?"

"Today would be best, actually. I have a little bit of a break at about eleven o'clock. I know it's short notice, but do you think you could make it?"

Bea waved her pen, though he couldn't see the gesture. "Whatever works for you works for me. I'll be there. Wait, where will I be? Your office?"

"No, no," He said. "It's being cleaned at the moment. How about the library?"

"Perfect!" She agreed. "So I'll see you at eleven, then."

"Yes. See you then."

As she hung up the phone, she contemplated that setting up an interview had never been quite so easy. Usually she always needed to introduce herself and at least persuade them a little bit. She couldn't imagine the receptionist had cast her in a favorable light, either.

But they always say not to look a gift horse in the mouth and Bea knew better than to question it. Even if the interview went horribly, she would at least be able to say as much to Cooper when he called for an update. And who knows? Maybe she would even get some good content from him.

Bea made quick work of cleaning the rest of the kitchen. She familiarized herself with the changes made to the layout. Besides the relocated mugs, someone had also moved the cereal and the bread, and there was a disturbing amount of junk food that built up in the pantry since she'd left.

She cleared out the most unhealthy items—some of which had long since passed their expiration date—but left a few snack foods like the cheese flavored crackers and one of the boxes of chocolate snack cakes.

In her mind, she heard the sound of a wrapper being shed and Claudia's voice whispering to her in her memory and she stared at the box of snack cakes for a long moment. Bea snatched it up and threw it into the trashcan. The pantry door clicked shut and she carried the now heavier trashcan over to its rightful spot against the wall beside the door to the hallway, and went to finally take a shower.

Thirty minutes before her scheduled interview with Principal Thomas, Bea stood in the garage and stared down at her bike in despair.

"I can't believe it's come to this," she said to the black ten-speed. "No one's going to take me seriously! This is ridiculous!"

About five minutes ago, as she pulled on her shoes and went to reach for her keys in her bag, she realized that she no longer _had_ a car. This city's depressing reliability of public transportation—or rather lack thereof—had led to Bea investing in this bike long before her dad helped her pick out the very car she'd crashed yesterday as a graduation present.

She had progressed from high school to college and traded in her bike for a car, and now it was all slowly slipping backwards. Bea felt like she was losing the grip she'd somehow managed to gain on her life, and there was no way to stop it.

So, with a heavy heart, Bea unearthed her bike from its resting place and breathed life back into its soft tires. They were still springy and if she ignored the thin coat of dust across its surface, it really was still a good bike. She tried to remind herself of this as she wheeled it out of the garage and onto the pavement of the sidewalk, feeling like the protagonist to a romance movie as she pedaled her way down the street.

She arrived at the school with time to spare. Once her bike was locked up snugly to the bike rack, Bea set out for the library. She situated the strap of her messenger bag and looked up at the school. Unless she was hallucinating, it looked like they'd added another building to the campus.

Bea stood near the entrance of the building she was familiar with and gawked at the addition that loomed some distance away. They'd added in a rather wide cement path that led up from the stairs coming from the parking lot, past the old building, and to the new one, which she could see from here also had multiple levels, but had an impressive set of windows through which she could barely see hanging light fixtures.

She shook her head and stepped into the entrance. The student parking lots had been empty, but there were a few cars in the parking lot reserved for teachers and visitors from what she could see. It meant that the hallways were eerily quiet and abandoned. Walking through a school while it's out of session was always a weird sensation for Bea.

Her befuddlement only increased when she reached the library and found that the doors had been sealed off. They'd even hung up a do not enter sign, and from what she could tell no one had bothered to come near the place for some time.

The interview was scheduled to begin soon. If she didn't hurry, she'd be late. Part of her wanted to take a peek inside the doors, but she had visions of pushing at the doors and an alarm blaring from the speakers overhead. The risk was too great and there wouldn't be enough payoff to sneak around in the high school like that anyways.

Bea was more than familiar with a number of secrets these walls protected, and she didn't have any latent desires to trip across more. She would only be causing more problems for herself, and she really needed this interview.

Hesitantly, Bea trudged to the main office, where she feared the receptionist she'd spoken on the phone with would be waiting to give her dirty looks and condescending replies. She drew her shoulders back and stepped inside.

To the side of the entrance stood a coffee table and a little waiting area. Some of the chairs were filled with students who were engrossed in a discussion and wearing casual clothes, like were waiting on someone or something. They ignored her as she passed them.

Behind the front counter sat a woman who looked to be old enough to have a few kids that might attend this school. She wore glasses and seemed surprised to see Bea approach. "Oh! Hi, there. Are you lost?"

Another memory flashed through Bea's mind. She saw the ghost of Claudia's face, clouded with confusion. Bea clenched her jaw and gripped the strap of her messenger bag tightly. "I'm supposed to meet with Principal Thomas at eleven o'clock."

They both glanced at the clock on the wall. The largest hand showed she had five minutes to spare. Normally, Bea liked to be about half an hour early to interviews so she had plenty of time to set up.

"You did?" The receptionist checked something on the computer and hummed slightly, tilting her head. "Odd, I don't have any notes from Julie about that. But she left for an early lunch and I'm just filling in until she gets back. He's not in his office, I know that much. Do you want me to try and call him?"

Julie probably hadn't wanted to deal with making nice with her. Bea took a breath. "No, it's not that. I was headed to the library to meet him but it seems to have…" She waved her hand. "Moved."

"Yes, I guess that would be right if you haven't been here since August. It received a lot of damage then so they just decided to move it to the building they started constructing two years ago. The new library is finished now, but they're taking the opportunity over break to add in some last minute touches to the rest of the building."

Bea blinked, her eyebrows raised. "Wow, that sounds… expensive. Where did they find the funding for that?"

The receptionist's smile froze on her face and she stared at Bea for a moment. It had been an innocent question, said more to break the ice and maybe earn a chuckle since Beacon Hills is—or at least used to be—notoriously underfunded, but Bea felt that the receptionist was caught off guard to hear it for some reason. She gave an uncomfortable laugh. "What did you say your name was, again?"

"Bea Stilinski."

Nearby, a head popped up from the group in the waiting area. Bea tried to keep focused on the receptionist, who was dialing something into her phone, but she couldn't help but notice the way the kid has his eyes glued on the side of her face. She nodded at whatever the receptionist said and cast a confused look in his direction.

He left the seating area to edge his way closer and Bea watched him from the corner of her eye. As the receptionist spoke to someone on the phone, the kid came to about three feet away from Bea. "I'm sorry, but did I just hear you say your name is Bea Stilinski?"

She frowned and looked around. The group was uninterested in whatever was happening and the receptionist was paying them no mind, either. "Yeah," she nodded, offering him a polite smile.

He barked out a loud, nervous laugh and tugged at one of the studs in his ears. "That's so weird! Oh, my name is Mason Hewitt."

He held his hand out and she gave it a firm shake. "Okay, well, nice to meet you, Mason…"

"Oh!" He shook his head. "Sorry! What am I doing? I'm being rude. It's just that Bea Stilinski is the same exact name as one of the writers for a newspaper that I follow, so when I heard you say it…" He waved it off. "No, sorry, it just took me by surprise. I'll leave you alone."

She lifted her hand to point at him and nod. "Are you talking about The Daily Sun?"

He seemed pleased that she recognized the name and when he stepped forward this time he was surer sure of himself, appearing happy to have made a connection with a stranger. "Yeah! That's it! Do you know it?"

"No, that's me," She said, tapping her chest. Mason's eyes went wide. She raised her eyebrows and gave him an amused smile.

"Ms. Stilinski?" The receptionist dropped the phone from her ear to grab Bea's attention. "Principal Thomas is waiting for you in the library. I'm so sorry for the confusion, he can come meet you here."

"Oh, no, it's really okay, I just need a map—that's all I wanted when I came in here, just an updated map and I can find the library myself—"

"I can show her!" Mason blurted, drawing the attention of both the receptionist and Bea.

Bea shook her head again and waved him off. "It's okay, seriously, can you just point me in the direction?"

"It's no trouble! The only reason I'm here is because I'm a friend of one of the transfer students from a nearby school and his orientation is today. I came for moral support. I might be a freshman but I know where the library is for sure! The principal won't shut up about it." He paused to wince and lift a hand at the receptionist. "Sorry," He shrugged.

She pretended to not have noticed. Bea looked at the receptionist, because now she sort of wanted to go with Mason to ask him about the new building. "I guess I have a new tour guide," She shrugged. Mason stepped away to tell his group where he was going and Bea went to wait near the door.

Mason pointed outside as he jogged back to her. "Okay, sorry. It's just over in the new building."

 _Of course it is_ , Bea thought. They left the office and started down the hall to the exit, and Bea jumped on the opportunity to ask about the building, since it seemed so out of character for the city to have made such a lavish expenditure.

"Yeah, I mean, I don't know why or what happened to the old library, but from what I heard it was pretty busted up. Somehow it got wrecked last year. There've actually been a lot of repairs they needed to do. Apparently some students were even locked in here overnight once and they were trapped with some psycho. People said it turned out to be a mountain lion or something, but… I don't know."

"A mountain lion?" Bea scoffed. Mason shrugged and she hummed thoughtfully. "Curiouser and curiouser."

"I know," He agreed. "Okay—I'm dying here. Please tell me not to be shy so I can ask you questions!"

Bea, surprised at the sudden burst of enthusiasm, blinked. "You? Shy?" She smirked. "I mean, look, I'm a journalist, so I'm not really in the position to tell people not to ask questions, am I?"

Mason gave a huffy laugh before launching into his first one. "What brings you to Beacon Hills?" He asked, some dim excitement in his eyes at the possibility of her working on a new piece. "Is there something happening here? Say yes. I have so many conspiracy theories about this town! After what I just told you, how could I not?"

Bea laughed at him and looked down at her shoes as they pushed the doors open and stepped outside. "Yeah—well, I'm still in the gathering stages, but it's about the suicides that have been happening around here lately."

"I knew it!" He exclaimed. "It's a serial killer, isn't it? It's like A Study in Pink type situation happening here, right?"

Bea shook her head. "I'm open to all suggestions right now. I don't want to go into this with any preconceived notions."

Mason nodded approvingly. "That makes sense. Duh. That's your job, to be open-minded. That's why I like your content so much! I hate it when I watch a documentary or read an article and it's obvious that whoever made it was biased. It just feels like the information they're giving is tainted, you know? But not The Daily Sun. All of the writers there are great about avoiding that, and it really comes through in the stories you guys deliver."

"Exactly," Bea agreed. She had been concerned that this would be an awkward conversation and that he might delay her even longer, but its seemed that her worries were unfounded. They'd already arrived at the new building and Bea was relieved. "Hey, you didn't happen to know any of the suicide victims that attended this high school, did you?"

Mason's face flooded with disappointment. "Not personally, no. I could tell you what I know but it would only be secondhand stuff or rumors."

"That's too bad," She said. They opened the large doors and she took a moment to look around the lobby, watching as a worker stood on a ladder to hang a banner across the large glass display case in front of the entrance. "I should've known that would be too easy."

"I'll keep an ear out," He promised. "And if I hear anything you'll be the first to know."

"Thank you—Mason, right?"

"Mason Hewitt." He stuck his hand out again. "And Bea Stilinski! You know, it's funny. They say you should never meet your heroes, but I guess they didn't know what they were talking about."

Bea laughed and withdrew her hand to look at her watch, noting that she was officially late for the interview. "Screw journalism, you should go into politics with that charm."

Mason shuddered drolly and before anything else could be said, a man wearing a suit came wandering down the ramp, looking more like he thought he was the president descending the steps of Air Force One than a principal coming down a library ramp. He scanned the area and stopped when he spotted the pair standing just inside the large doors of the entrance. He lifted a hand and smoothed down his jacket. "Ms. Stilinski?"

"Principal Thomas," She called. "Sorry I'm late! This place grew another building since I was here last."

Mason chuckled and Principal Thomas held his hands out proudly as he came across the distance between them. "Rather remarkable, isn't it? It hasn't even been debuted to the students yet."

"I guess that's my cue to gracefully duck out." Mason stepped back into a mocking bow and straightened to point at a chuckling Bea. "It was a pleasure, Bea. Hopefully we'll see each other again soon."

"Yes, thank you, Mister…" Principal Thomas held his hand out and stared at Mason. He snapped his fingers a few times as though he was summoning a memory from deep within the far reaches of his mind, and Bea lowly supplied Mason's last name. "Hewitt! Mr. Hewitt, secretary of Student Council, I believe? Quite an accomplishment for a freshman."

Mason paused and then tilted his head. He turned his palm over and said, "…It's Social Activities Chair, actually."

"Yes, of course. I knew it was something like that," Principal Thomas awkwardly laughed, smoothing his jacket down again as he tried to conceal his somewhat discomfited expression from Bea and Mason. "You've been a massive help organizing the candlelight vigil for New Year's Eve."

"Really?" Bea interjected, her eyes focused on Mason, who was stuck between the open door and the entrance of the building. "You didn't say anything!"

"I—it just slipped my mind—" Mason scratched at the back of his neck. "You should go! It's happening tomorrow night, obviously."

"Yes!" Principal Thomas heartily agreed. "Come, Beatrice, I'll tell you all about it."

Bea cringed. "My name isn't Bea—you know what? It doesn't matter. Thanks again, Mason. I'll see you tomorrow."

He waved as Principal Thomas practically dragged her across the floor to the ramp. She listened to him point out different aspects in the architecture, like the dark colored beams that arched all throughout the ceiling that matched the beams in the windows. "The community really pulled together to help fund this building. If it wasn't for the numerous donations from so many generous families and businesses, we never would have been able to rebuild from scratch.

"It would've just been more plaster slapped over the gaping wound that was the old library. That place was a wreck when I returned. But it's all shipshape now!"

They emerged in the actual library and Bea stopped to take it all in. Principal Thomas didn't interrupt or even comment further. He just stood with his hands on his hips to watch her expression as she took in the impressive view.

The ceilings were tall—tall enough to comfortably fit in two levels, which were both accessible from the main floor at the very bottom. The hanging light fixtures she'd noticed from standing outside the other building were here, suspended overhead and just as massive as she had presumed them to be up close. They weren't chandeliers, not quite, because they were too industrial to befit such a name, but they were no less impressive.

Still, somehow they fit into the rest of the pleasing scenery the library had to offer. The tall windows afforded a perfect view of the main school building and even part of the lacrosse field, and beyond that, the woods were just barely visible. If Bea went to stand in the middle of the second level she'd probably be able to even see her bike chained to the bike rack.

She snorted and turned away. "Wow," She appreciated. "This is way more than I was expecting. Those are the same shelves, aren't they?"

"Of course. Those shelves have history on them. And I don't mean the books." He smirked, apparently very satisfied with that pun, and Bea grinned and nodded as he continued on to show her to a table.

"The initials, right? Senior Scribe! I'm sure mine are still around here, somewhere."

"Yes, of course. I like to think of it as a physical mark that the students can leave on the school before they graduate and scatter to the wind."

"Actually it looks like there are even more than there used to be. Look at all these books! I bet Harris is just in hog heaven over all the shelving he can force students to do now," She chuckled, nudging the Principal gently with her elbow. At his expression, she stopped short. Her smirk fell. "Oh, god… He's not?"

The principal's face was grim and uncomfortable as he cleared his throat and turned to pull out a chair at the largest table. A cleaning crew who were washing the giant windows made a pretty big show of pretending not to listen in as they sprayed and scrubbed, and Bea slowly set her messenger bag on the table. "It's… too much to go into just now, but suffice it to say that Harris is tragically no longer with us."

Bea mentally cursed her thoughtlessness. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea! When did this happen?"

Principal Thomas blew a breath through his lips as he thought back. "Ohhh, it was very close to the beginning of the semester, back when all that hubbub with the occult sacrifices were happening, so… September, was it? No, August. Was it after the doctor was killed?" He shook his head. "I'm afraid I don't have the exact date."

Bea's jaw was dropped, her hands frozen where she'd been digging through her bag to collect her recording equipment to start the interview. In a quick scramble, she picked up her voice recorder and held it out to him. "Do you mind if I start recording?"

Caught off guard, he shook his head. Principal Thomas shifted in his chair and adjusted his glasses and hair, as if the voice recorder was a camera and he wanted to be presentable for it. He cleared his throat while Bea set it up.

"Okay," She started, after having recorded the setting, the date, and whom she was speaking with. "So let's take it back. You were just saying something about one of the science teachers here, Mr. Harris? Can you tell me again what happened, as best as you can recall?"

"As I said, I'm afraid I don't have exact dates or details. But as far as I know, he was part of the serial killings that happened around the beginning of the semester. A lot of tragedy has happened in this town. I suppose it should really come as no surprise that some of the young students may have been so deeply effected by all that they've lost."

Bea nodded and wrote down a note for herself to research about these 'occult' serial killings. "And when you say deeply effected young students, you're referring to the students who have committed suicide over the past month, right?"

"Yes." Principal Thomas sat up straighter. "Andrew Brown was the first one. They found him washed up on the shore under Riley Bridge, just like all the others. Poor kids."

"How many others have there been?"

"There's been one body found a week for the last month. So, four in total so far."

"At the same time every week?"

"No, no," Principal Thomas considered it. "I believe Andrew was found on a Monday. Tyler Jones missed his wrestling match and he was found the morning after, so that would make his on a Wednesday. A canine unit found Mariah Miller while they police were still combing through for evidence from the other kids on a Saturday. And most recently, Casey Michaels. She was just found last Thursday, if I'm not mistaken." He paused. "You should probably confirm those dates, of course."

Bea gave him a sly grin. "Oh, I always do."

The cleaning crew near the windows had started to gather their things. They were loading cleaning carts with buckets and rags and squeegees, and the late afternoon morning sun was barely managing to break through the clouds. Bea looked away and saw that Principal Thomas was folding his hands together in preparation of speaking. "Can I just say how nice it is to actually sit down and have an interview? Do you know, no one has thought of interviewing the principal?"

Bea, shocked, blinked widely at him. "You're kidding. What about the police?"

Principal Thomas hesitated and withdrew his hands. "Oh, well, not in so many words. They definitely didn't go to the lengths to sit down with me and do something as formal as _this_."

The cleaning crew began to wheel their squeaking carts away, and Bea couldn't help but notice how distinctly informal it was to have a cleaning crew wearing sweaty, stained clothing and pushing an overflowing cart filled with rags and dustpans in the background. "Well, for one, this is my job. But beyond that, a formal interview with the police generally means an interrogation, and they only formally interrogate witnesses or suspects."

"Suspects!?" The principal bulked, stiffening up like a bird with ruffled feathers. He sputtered around for a second before forming a coherent response. "Never mind! On second thought, I'm glad they haven't felt the need."

Bea was laughing now and she shook her head. "So just out of curiosity, do you have any idea if these victims happened to know each other?"

Principal Thomas frowned. "You mean were they friends?" At Bea's noncommittal shrug, he looked away and mulled it over. "No, I don't believe so. They didn't seem to travel in the same circles, as far as I could tell. Why?"

"Well, wouldn't it be interesting if they all happened to be connected somehow?"

"Yes," He nodded. "That would be quite the coincidence. Some would even say it would be too much of a coincidence."

"I would agree, if it were true. But it sounds like you're saying not so much." Bea made a few notes and Principal Thomas lifted a finger to catch her attention.

"Keep in mind that I _am_ only the principal. I knew them as students, but I didn't know them personally. Maybe you'd be better off asking some of the people closer to them about that."

Bea clicked her tongue and tapped the page she'd just written on. "Already made a note."

Principal Thomas withdrew his hand with a grin. "Oh, you're good."

She hummed. "Thanks, I try. Now, do you have anything else you'd like to add before we wrap this up?"

"I've been the principal at this school for a very long time. Even before that I taught junior English. And in all my years here, I've never seen the school so willing to band together in times of hardship. I'm not sure what's changed over the last year but something has definitely shifted in this school. I'm proud of what my students are doing to overcome the odds. I really hope you'll come to the candlelight vigil tomorrow, so you can see what I'm talking about for yourself."

"Wow." Bea flashed him a wide grin and raised her eyebrows, giving him a nod. "You're good."

He laughed, and rapped the table with his knuckles. "I try."

Bea looked over her notes, preparing to close the session. "One last thing… the old library. When I was coming to meet you, I found it blocked off with a 'do not enter' sign posted, and then earlier you said something about it being—if memory serves—'a wreck' when you returned. What happened to it?"

"This is going to be a bit hard to believe, but it's actually a pretty exciting story. A mountain lion got into the school, can you believe it?"

Bea stared at him. "Really? A mountain lion? Now, how did that happen?"

He put his hands up and shook his head. "I've no idea, I wasn't even the principal here when it happened. I just had to clean up the mess when they asked me back."

"Really?" She leaned in. "You left? Why? When?"

"Earlier this year, just for part of a semester. It was a short trip, really."

"You went on a trip?"

Principal Thomas hummed. She noticed that he was tapping his fingers on the table now, almost like he was ready to end the interview.

"And who took your position?"

Principal Thomas shook his head and closed eyes to concentrate. "Oh, I knew you would ask me that. It was… his name was Germaine Argent. I'm absolutely positive. Yes, Germaine Argent. I remember because he was quite the character."

"Interesting. Well, this has been very insightful." She put her hand out to shake his. "Thank you for lending me your time on such short notice."

"Absolutely! I believe in the power of the press, and all that. I don't care what anyone says, what you guys do is important."

At that backhanded compliment, Bea offered the principal an understanding smile. "Kind of you to say."

"Will you be in town long?" He asked, tilting his head. Bea could chalk it up to paranoia, but she felt like he was hoping she'd say no, which was interesting since he'd been so eager to make this interview happen. But now that it's over—and she didn't think it could be a coincidence that she'd had to end it so soon after picking lightly at the subject of his apparent hiatus as principal—it felt like he wanted her to just go away.

"As long as it takes to piece this story together," She replied, with an easy-going tone. "What's the matter? Want me out of your hair already?"

"Not before that candlelight vigil," He reminded, his finger raised in her face. She laughed and he turned to leave. "There are sandwiches in the cafeteria for the new student orientation, but feel free to help yourself before you go!"

She waved at him and then turned to look down at the table and at her notes, her hands on her hips. Once Principal Thomas left down the ramp they'd come in through, the whole area had emptied and she was left alone.

Bea decided to take advantage of the tools at her disposal and see if she could find some newspaper clippings about what had transpired in the town in her absence. She was sick of making poorly timed jokes about people who actually turn out to be dead. It was time she found out everyone who'd perished since she'd been out of town, once and for all.

* * *

The death toll turned out to be longer than anything she could have imagined, and rising. The research that she thought would take thirty minutes at most ended up occupying the rest of her afternoon. She'd missed so much. To be absolutely thorough, she texted Aarons to ask if he would fact check what she'd gathered thus far. So many people had died. It saddened her, and standing there now, with Riley Bridge before her for the first time in years, she felt a chill settle over her.

It really hadn't been blocked off yet, as she had claimed when she spoke to Cooper. In light of all the suicides she was surprised to see it wide open for the public to use and she was even more surprised to see that there were people milling about.

As a general rule, Riley Bridge was a pretty low-traveled spot in Beacon Hills. But it seemed that people's grim curiosity knew no bounds, and they were awfully stuck at the edge of the bridge, looking down into the cloudy water that was partially frozen. Bea moved up the path, her legs stiff and aching. She felt inwardly embarrassed and somewhat ashamed at her own lack of strength. Apparently, all it took to remind her just how out of shape she'd let herself get was a quick ride through town on her bike. Bea pushed through and focused on the people on the bridge.

"It's so cold," Shivered the woman with the ponytail and the thick, tired looking sweatshirt. "Who would jump into that? On _purpose?_ There are like, three other ways to kill yourself that I could name right now that don't involve jumping into ice water."

Her dirty blonde hair fell over her shoulder as she turned and spotted Bea approaching. She smacked the girl beside her in the shoulder, who looked to be a little younger than the woman. The woman was probably not far from Bea's age.

Bea swallowed the sadness she felt at the sight of the bridge and pulled up her camera. "Mind if I take some pictures?"

"Not any of us, though," The woman qualified. Bea gave her a strange look. "What? You're the one with the camera! What are we supposed to think?"

She looked at the girl, who seemed a little embarrassed by the older woman's behavior. The girl looked away and pulled at her sleeves. Bea explained she was taking pictures for an article.

The girls went to stand behind Bea while she lifted her camera and took a snapshot of the bridge, with the woods included in the shot on the other side. "Sasha knew Mariah. Didn't you, Sasha?"

"Mariah Miller?" Bea specified. She lowered her camera and took the girl in fully. She might have been a little younger than Stiles, and she seemed incredibly shy. The girl shrugged her shoulder.

"They used to do gymnastics together," The woman explained. "Back when Sasha still did stuff like that. Many moons ago," She joked with a snort. Bea indulged her joke with a grin. "And anyways, we weren't all that surprised to hear about Mariah. That girl was always messed up."

"Really?" Bea switched her camera to a video. She made sure to keep it aimed away from the girl's face, focusing instead on capturing the way the lampposts stood so high over the railing of the bridge. "What do you mean?"

"She was always crying and stuff, even when she was little. I remember when we were about to leave once and Sasha forgot her bag in the locker rooms. So she ran back to get it, and she walked in on Mariah just bawling."

"About what?" Bea asked, her eyes focused on Sasha.

"She said she was sad about her dad," Sasha explained, in a small voice. "He died when she was real young, and I don't think she ever got over it."

"He had something wrong with him, though, didn't he?" The woman smacked Sasha on the shoulder. "What was it? He was disturbed or something like that."

"Schizophrenia," Sasha mumbled, looking down at the water. "I hear it's hereditary."

"Look!" The woman went up to a pole and pointed at something. "This girl was so ready, she even wrote her name on the pole here. Like some kind of suicide note or whatever. See?"

Bea joined her and made sure to get a clear shot of the name that the woman pointed to. Sure enough, it showed the name scratched out in jagged writing. "There are more names here," Bea realized aloud. "Wait a second… these are all names of the kids that died here!"

"Really?" The woman leaned closer and squinted. "They all left their names? That's like… creepy. I'm creeped out now."

"It's cold," Paige said. "Can we go already?"

"Yeah," The woman backed away, her eyes lingering on the pole. She looked over at Bea. "Hey, don't jump off or anything dumb like that, okay? I'd feel really bad if you showed up in the paper in a couple of days."

Bea waved at them as Sasha pulled the older woman, who Bea was assuming must have been her sister or someone related to her, urgently down the bridge. The names apparently spooked them pretty badly. Bea spent a few more minutes getting shots of the creek bed and the names on the poles.

The bridge held a lot of memories for Bea, but the structure itself wasn't necessarily what caused her to feel so uneasy while she was there alone. It was the fact that ever since she was little, ever since she could remember, it always felt like there was something in the woods just out of sight watching her.

And the wind always blew colder from inside. There was a breeze that would roll through, carrying a quiet whistle with it, and Bea would shiver and back away every time it blew past. She pulled the hood of her jacket up and turned to retreat off the bridge and back onto the safety of the path, leaving the names and memories behind.

* * *

Bea was still thinking about the names that night at dinner. Sheriff sat at the head of the table with papers splayed around him, some of his pile of papers spilling into some of her pile of notes, and Stiles was inhaling his food like he thought someone was going to steal it.

Her fork tapped her plate as she watched him devour the pasta she'd made. "Do you even stop to take a breath?" She asked with a smirk.

Stiles froze, his cheeks puffed with food, and promptly looked away. He chewed slower this time and drew in a deep breath, taking care to audibly expel it, and took a drink of his water.

Bea sat back in her seat and steepled her fingers together, her eyes trained on her dad. "So I saw the new library today," She started.

"Oh?" Sheriff absently responded, shuffling through some papers in search of something. He pulled up another folder to thumb through and pick out a page. He made a noise of recognition and it fluttered quietly as he settled it on top of the stack he was building.

"I made a comment about how Harris must be in hog heaven because of all the books he could force students to shelve now."

Sheriff's head snapped up and Stiles choked on his water. With mild panic in his eyes, Sheriff looked away from Stiles to focus on his daughter. "Uh—Bea—Adrian Harris is actually dead."

"Yeah, I know that now!" She yelled.

For the first time since she'd been home, Stiles burst out laughing. At her scathing glare, he shook his head unapologetically and covered his mouth. "Holy crap, Bea! You're _such_ an asshole!"

"Hey! She didn't know," Sheriff defended, fixing a disapproving frown on Stiles.

"Yeah?" Stiles pushed away from the table a bit to fling a hand in Bea's direction. "And whose fault is that? She has a phone! She could've called at any point!"

Bea sat up straighter. "First of all, I did call! Don't pretend I didn't! And I distinctly recall a lack of murders happening! Second of all, you stopped answering! Third, the phone works both ways!"

Determined to lay the blame with his sister, Stiles pressed on. "Okay, but there's still the internet! Does the internet work both ways, Bea? Does it work both ways now?!"

A shrill ringtone cut Bea off, and she looked down. Her screen lit up claiming it was Cooper, who, true to character, had interrupted her mid-sentence even without realizing it. She growled loudly and Stiles gave her a dirty look.

Bea picked up her phone and stormed out of the dining room, going outside on the porch to take the call.

"Hello?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, did I catch you at a bad time?" Cooper asked, sounding annoyed straight out of the gate. Bea pinched the bridge of her nose and suppressed a sigh. "Were you just waking up? Is the sun rising there? It's a different time zone, right?"

"What? No, Cooper, we're in the same state."

"Oh! I'm sorry! It's just that I was helping Aarons research that thing you asked him about earlier, and I discovered that apparently you live in Loony-ville where anything goes! Did you forget to mention all the spectacularly gruesome murders that happened in your town a few months ago?!"

She sighed and tried to think of how to respond.

"Stilinski, what the hell is up with Beacon Hills?" Cooper exclaimed.

Bea shook her head. "Honestly, I don't even know anymore."

"Yeah," He scoffed, much more subdued now that he'd gotten the sarcasm out of his system. "So what've you got?"

It took Bea twenty minutes to fill him in on everything she'd discovered that day, and Cooper was so excited about the candlelight vigil that you'd think she told him there would be a second Christmas. He left her with a few tips on how to deal with family members, in the likely event that one of them eventually crosses paths with her at the vigil tomorrow night, and she trudged back into her house, her feet dragging the whole way.

But she didn't need to be so reluctant. Stiles had long since left. Bea looked at her dad in disappointment and he just shook his head. "At least he's speaking to you, right? I call that progress."

Bea laughed loudly, feeling a headache forming between her eyes. She covered her face. "Progress? Yeah, _progress_ —like a terrorist group making progress. He was just screaming at me, dad. Were we even sitting at the same table?"

"Stiles is just going through a lot," Sheriff said again. "He's not ready to tell you everything yet. But I think he'll get there. It's not gonna be an instantaneous thing, Bea."

She settled back into her chair and put her head back to groan at the ceiling. "I am so not equipped to deal with all this crap right now!"


	4. Chapter 4

**January 2000**

 **Beacon Hills, CA**

 **The Stilinski House**

Stiles was a naturally rambunctious child. He had long since mastered the function of speech and was not afraid to over exercise this function. Bea lay nearby on the couch. She was too sick to have attended school that day, and she watched as Stiles played a game of monopoly against himself.

He picked up a toy dinosaur that technically belonged to Bea and made it walk across the game board. "What the heck are you doing?" Bea muttered to Stiles, who glanced over his shoulder at her.

"Want to play Destroy Town?"

Bea snorted and broke into a cough. She sucked in a breath and frowned at him. "Ugh, what are you talking about?"

"Destroy Town!" Stiles danced his dinosaur over to a piece on the game board and made it jump up and down on it. "Destrooooyyy!"

The piece flew off the board and into the floor. They watched as it skidded under the couch and Stiles lifted his astonished gaze to Bea's face. "Good one," she muttered. "That's not how you're supposed to play, anyways."

"Just because you can't play monopoly with one person. I'm one person. If you'd play, there would be two. But you won't." He whined. "You never play."

"That's not true! I played with you last night, Mickey!"

"Yeah, for like two minutes."

She let her head fall back against the cushion of the couch and closed her eyes, gathering her patience. "We played through an entire movie."

"For like two minutes!" He held up his dinosaur toy. "Let's play again."

Bea smacked her hands over her face and groaned loudly. "I can't deal with you right now."

"Hey, that's mean." He shifted and looked towards the kitchen. "Mom! Bea won't play with me!"

"She's cleaning, Mickey. Leave her alone."

Paying no heed to his sickly pale sister, he stood up to swiftly stomp through the dining room into the kitchen. Bea listened to the white noise of the television and waited. She heard the faint voice of her brother and didn't even bother to go defend herself, taking a sip of the warm, sugary tea her father had made before leaving for work about thirty minutes ago.

It was quiet for a long time. Unnaturally long. Bea sat up and looked to the dining room, but stopped short when she saw Stiles standing in the doorway. He wrung his little hands and his bottom lip was pouted. "Mom yelled at me," He muttered.

"What?" Bea sat up farther on the couch, laying her arm across the back. "What happened?"

Stiles merely shrugged, his eyes stuck to the floor.

It took some effort but Bea managed to climb to her feet. She felt a rush of hot and cold, and her head spun. She waited for her vision to return and ignored the ringing in her ears, the chatter and music from the television quieting as she moved towards her little brother.

Stiles lifted his arms up expectantly and Bea sighed heavily at him.

"You're five years old now," She informed him. "You're too heavy for that."

His big, wide, tearful eyes made her resolve break before it even had the chance to fully form. She reached down and grabbed him under the arms to settle him against her hip, and Stiles quickly wrapped his arms around her and laid his head down on her shoulder.

"Don't—" She pulled her head away. "I'm sick."

Stiles sniffled and ignored her. "She won't stop sweeping the floors."

"Okay," Bea placated, deciding that she should assess the situation herself. "We'll just go see."

He reached out to grab her face and turn it towards his so that he could properly convey the gravity of his advice. "Don't walk on the floor, okay? She doesn't like that."

Bea resisted the urge to laugh at him. "Okay. Got it."

When they reached the kitchen, Bea saw her mom bent over the trashcan, which reverberated loudly as she emptied a dustpan and tapped it against the side to get it all out.

"Mom?" Bea lingered in the doorway and watched with Stiles in her arms at her side.

Claudia dropped the dustpan onto the ground and went to start in the farthest corner of the kitchen. She didn't even look in their direction and continued to furiously sweep at the floor.

Bea looked but could see nothing on the floor to sweep. Claudia moved the broom like there was a pile of dirt or mess that she was clearing away. She would start at the edge of the wall and floor and move out, sweeping the broom as if to scatter the invisible mess.

"It looks clean to me," Bea pointed out with a lifted eyebrow. Claudia looked over and pointed at Bea's feet.

"Where are your socks?" She said. "You shouldn't walk around without socks on. This place is a mess."

"My feet were hot." Bea shrugged. She shifted Stiles on her hip, and he sighed.

"Look at this corner! I just have to clean this part. It's not coming up. Do you think Stiles tracked dirt inside?"

"Maybe… Mom, seriously, the floor looks fine. Why don't you come watch TV? I think JAG is going to be on next."

"That's it! You kids are not allowed to wear your shoes in the house anymore! It's hard enough keeping these wood floors clean without having to worry about leaves and grass from the yard!" Claudia swept harder, cracking out a noise of irritation as she jabbed the broom viciously at some imagined spot. "This place is a pigsty!"

Stiles tugged at Bea's shirt. He silently urged her to leave Claudia to herself, and after a long moment's hesitation, she did. Bea and Stiles went back to the living room where she settled him on the end of the couch at her feet before she laid back down and tried not to think about how irritable her mom had become lately.

They made it through a whole three episodes before Stiles had to get up and go to the bathroom, so Bea took advantage of his absence to sneak another look in the kitchen. She saw Claudia in the same corner of the kitchen—sweeping the same spot.

If anything, she appeared even more irritated. The sweep would move in the same way, the same number of times, change direction, and sweet a few more times, before she'd tap it out on the ground and start all over again. Sometimes she would actually catch some stray piece of dust or minute clutter from the ground and she would freak out.

The day went on like this. At noon, Bea left Stiles on the couch to get herself some medicine and grab some lunch from the kitchen. She found that as long as she made a show of taking care to clean up after herself, her mom didn't get too aggravated.

She was able to linger just long enough to make a bowl of macaroni for Stiles, but when she went to cross the floor to the pantry, which was near where Claudia swept, her mom burst with anger and yelled at her to get out.

Bea collected the macaroni for Stiles and left with medicine, but no lunch for herself. Periodically, she continued to peek into the kitchen for the rest of the afternoon, and each time she found her sweeping the same spot. If Claudia noticed her, she would yell at Bea for not wearing socks, and if Stiles came in, she would yell at him to get out of the kitchen entirely.

It's not that Claudia didn't care, Bea told herself. She was just hung up on the state of the floor in the kitchen. Which wasn't even dirty. A small seed of doubt was planted, and as the worry in her chest grew, Bea kept Stiles as separate from their erratic mother as she could for the rest of the day.

* * *

 **New Years Eve 2011**

 **Beacon Hills, CA**

 **High School Gymnasium**

"People are scared," The woman said, her eyes red rimmed and raw. She clutched the wadded tissue in her hand and sniffled loudly. All around them, people spoke in low murmurs. Most of the lights were out in the gymnasium but there were so many candles lit that it didn't matter. It did, however, make everything that people said feel more impactful, somehow. "Just scared, you know? These kids keep dying! And how can they be stopped? They're suicides—I mean, what can we do about that?"

Bea adjusted the cardboard drip protector on her candle so she could shift the camera in her hand. She held it closer to the woman, to be absolutely sure everything was caught clearly. "And you said you knew one of those kids?"

She nodded, pain reflecting with the glow of the candlelight in her shining eyes. "Yeah! I knew Casey real well. She works with me at the donut shop on Eighth Street for two years now. There's… she still has a jacket hanging in the break room. Her food is still in the fridge."

"When was she found?"

"Thursday morning, I guess. I didn't hear about it until I got off my shift that evening at six o'clock but I remember just being floored. I mean, it seemed like she worked too hard sometimes, you know, for a kid… but I didn't think she ever seemed sad. Just tired. And stressed."

"I guess you can never really know what a person is thinking," Bea pointed out. "What about her friends? Do you know what they said?"

"Friends?" The woman laughed, and then with some degree of shame and frustration at herself, she wiped all amusement from her face and rearranged her features into a more somber expression. "Oh, no. Casey didn't have friends."

Bea felt a wave of sadness on behalf of this girl. The girl who worked too hard, who didn't have friends, who felt enough pain to end her life. She cleared her throat. "Well, it sounds like she was a good employee. It must be hard to have to continue working without her there now."

"Yeah. Casey was the best. She was never late and she would always cover for you if you were sick. She was up for a promotion, did I mention that?"

"No," Bea paused. "She was up for a promotion?" Somehow, that made everything about the situation worse. It made it more tragic.

"Oh, yeah," The woman nodded. "Everyone thought she was going to get it, too. I'm not just saying that either. She deserved one a long time ago. She worked really hard for it."

Bea lowered the camera to capture the way the woman was anxiously picking apart the tissue in her hands.

"It's just so sad," the woman added with a shake of her head. Suddenly, someone approached them from the side, asserting something that Bea didn't quite catch at the woman. "Really, Bernie? It's not funny."

The man stepped into frame. He wore glasses with lenses thick enough to qualify the brown spectacles as coke-bottle glasses, and a tacky bowling shirt that would make Charlie Sheen proud. "There's nothing funny about it, you're absolutely right!"

"What?" Bea asked.

The woman rolled her eyes. "Don't encourage him."

"I know what happened to those kids!" Bernie proclaimed. "And it wasn't suicide, I can absolutely guarantee that much."

"What?" Bea asked again, more persistently this time. She caught Bernie's attention, and his eyes glued to the camera. He stepped forward to stand beside the woman and she rolled her eyes at him so hard, Bea thought they'd pop out.

"Bernie! This a memorial for these kids! They don't need you spouting out asinine theories of yours—"

"Asinine!? Are you really calling my research asinine, woman?"

Before the argument could escalate, Bea interjected with a finger raised. "Um—I would like to hear these theories of his, if you don't mind."

"Really?" The woman sneered. "I thought you were documenting reality. You know, the truth? For the sake of 'ethical reporting', or whatever, for some kinda respectable paper. Not a supermarket tabloid."

Bea felt her eyes narrow slightly on the woman but the man blustered out a speech before she had the chance to respond.

"It's very clear what's happening in Beacon Hills," Bernie started, his chest puffed up. "It's been happening for a long time, and it's because of the Citizens' Journal that more and more people are becoming aware of it. The big name papers would rather have you reading misinformation about mountain lion attacks and—"

The woman seemed ready to wring his neck. She clenched her teeth tightly and hissed, "Bernie, if you don't put a lid on it, I will personally drag you out by the short hairs—"

"I have cold, hard evidence! Visually confirmed proof, recorded on a genuine camera: the witness that can't blink! And what do you think those papers have as proof? Eyewitness accounts. Unreliable sources feeding them whatever information law enforcement is telling them to say about what they saw!"

"And _you_ think it was a big, flying saucer?"

Bea blinked.

Bernie threw his hands up at the woman's provocative question. "I can't have a rational discussion with you if all you're going to do is ridicule—"

"Good! This is not the time or the place to be talking about UFOs, Bernie! Read the room!"

People nearby were starting to take notice. They looked back at the bickering couple and inched away, and word was spreading like a fire, jumping from group to group, and soon enough Bea caught sight of people all the way at the other end of the gym turning to peek at the couple as they loudly argued about UFOs.

What had started out as a promising, informative interview devolved into an absurd argument so fast that Bea still wasn't sure what happened. She was sure she felt some degree of embarrassment, however, at being so close to the quarreling couple.

"Bea!"

She turned and saw Mason flagging her from through the crowd. Relieved, she immediately disengaged from the arguing couple to weave through the throngs of people. At times she narrowly avoided a stray candle flame that wandered dangerously close to her sleeves and hair.

"God, you know what?" She said to Mason, who was already beaming at her. "It's a good thing they always have EMTs and police officers on standby at school gatherings like this. A bunch of kids trapped with lit flames inside an enclosed, wooden area? This is like, asking for a horrible, horrible accident."

Mason's beaming face fell slightly and he looked off to the side where a kid with a flat bill hat was giggling as he waved his finger through his candle flame. "I didn't even think of that… We should have done this on the lacrosse field."

"But it's cold out," The guy standing beside Mason reminded him. "And besides, the gym has ambiance. And sprinklers, probably, somewhere up there. What does the lacrosse field have? Besides dry grass, I mean."

Mason sighed loudly and shook his head. "Oh!" he put his hand over the guy's shoulder and presented him to Bea. "Look who I found! This is… _was_ … Andrew Brown's boyfriend. God, I'm sorry, Calvin, I'm still getting used to this. I don't mean to be rude."

Calvin had thin wrists and delicate features. Bea noticed a silver hoop pierced through his septum and she offered him a kind smile as he waved Mason off. "It's fine."

Calvin didn't elaborate—but then, Bea realized, he didn't need to. What else was there to say, really? "I'm so sorry. I'm Bea Stilinski," She introduced, hoping that the subject change would ease some of the tension. She knew that a certain degree of discomfort couldn't be avoided though, given the nature of the vigil. Calvin offered her a scattered smile as he shook her hand. "I'm a journalist who works for The Daily Sun, but I'm guessing you already knew that."

"I was just talking to Calvin and—" Mason stopped himself to turn to the smaller framed boy. "You know what? Why don't you tell her?"

Calvin's eyes flitted in Bea's direction. "Right now?"

"Yeah!" Mason nodded enthusiastically. "It's cool, I swear. You don't have to say anything you don't want to."

"There's really no pressure at all," Bea reassured him. "This is supposed to be a cathartic memorial, not an opportunity for the press to put you on blast."

Calvin laughed and scratched at his chin, still looking mildly self-conscious. "Okay. Uh, well, I was just saying to Mason that Andrew was accepted to the art school in Chicago. He got a really, really big scholarship on early acceptance from them. Not full ride, but pretty close."

"Wow, that's incredible! Really? That's a—" she looked at Mason, making an impressed face. "That's a _really_ big deal! That's like the ivy league of art schools."

Calvin nodded. "I know! That's why… it just doesn't make sense, you know? He wouldn't have done it. Not with Chicago so close." He shook his head. "But I don't know, maybe he stopped taking his medicine again."

"Andrew was on medication?" Mason asked, glancing at Bea. "He never said anything!"

"Well that's because it's not the type of thing people usually broadcast, Mason! It was for some mental health issues that were very personal to him. I really don't feel comfortable getting into it. I already said way too much. I was telling you because you're my friend, Mason. I wasn't expecting you to drag me to a reporter! Can we just drop it?"

Calvin was visibly irritated. Mason fumbled to apologize and Calvin was polite enough to shrug it off, but it was clear that the short-lived interview was over.

Bea had questions. Lots of them. She wanted to ask about Andrew's final interactions with Calvin. She wanted to know how he had behaved in the weeks leading up to the fateful day, and she wanted to ask how the police had been handling the investigation from the perspective of someone close to one of the victims.

Calvin waved his candle around. "My wick is ruined," He excused, his words clipped and tone short. "I'm going to go get another candle."

Mason apologized again and stood close to Bea as Calvin turned around to retreat to whatever group Mason had dragged him away from. Bea winced in a splintered effort to make light of the situation, and looked to Mason, who was riddled with guilt. He scratched at the back of his head.

"Well… _That_ couldn't have gone any worse, right?" he cringed.

Bea laughed. "Oh, it definitely could have." She laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You did well. I know who he is now, so I can always follow up later."

"I don't know…" Mason shook his head. "He seemed upset. Maybe we should just leave him alone to grieve."

Bea sighed loudly. "You want to talk about disaster? I just had an interview interrupted by a man who's convinced that they're being abducted by aliens." Mason gasped and covered his mouth to contain the laughter that was begging to slip out, and Bea continued, telling him how the woman had revealed she thought it was some sort of cult was to blame, and how the two were still possibly even arguing about it as they spoke.

They turned to try and look for the couple, but they were gone, and the crowd around them had dispersed, leaving a clear view of the last row of bleachers. Bea spotted a girl sitting with her jacket hood pulled over her head, somewhat removed from the crowd that occupied the seats one row up from her.

What caught Bea's attention was the way the girl pulled at her sleeves. She recognized that jacket. "Hey…" Bea grabbed Mason's arm and pulled him closer. "Don't be obvious about looking, but—tell me, is that Sasha sitting at the bottom of the bleachers over there?"

Mason pretended he was fixing something about the top of Bea's hair and looked over her head at the bleachers behind them. He flicked a strand of her dark hair and Bea snorted at the action, surprised by how smoothly he covered his spying. Mason nodded at her as he pulled away.

"Yeah, it's dark but I'm pretty sure that's Sasha Pierce. Why?"

"She's not holding a candle," Bea noted. "Everyone else has a candle."

Mason frowned and hummed thoughtfully. "Maybe she just got here."

"Hey, thanks again for introducing me to Calvin. If nothing else, now I have a clearer picture of who Andrew was."

Mason didn't get the chance to properly respond. He was forced to watch as Bea split through the crowd to approach the bleachers.

She slowed her pace and lifted the camera to get a shot of the girl sitting alone.

"Hey, Sasha, right?" She greeted.

The girl looked up. It appeared that she'd been crying and when she recognized Bea, she looked very confused. Sasha wiped at her eyes and frowned. "You're the woman from the bridge…. what are you doing here?" Sasha looked around. "Are you following me?"

"What?" Bea shook her head. "No. I'm reporting on the suicides, remember? I was invited by the principal to the vigil."

"Oh." Sasha blinked hard and sighed, looking down. "Duh. Sorry. Diane always says I'm too suspicious."

"Is that why you're sitting alone?" Bea asked.

"Huh?" Sasha looked over at the group that sat higher on the bleachers. She looked away. "Sure."

"Mind if I sit? I promise I won't interview you."

"I don't mind," Sasha shrugged. She scooted over, the physical invitation making it perfectly clear since there was plenty of room beside her to begin with. "I might not have very helpful answers for you, though."

Bea went to join her. "Where's your sister?"

Sasha looked confused at first but seemed to catch on. "Oh, you mean Diane. She had to work."

Bea settled into the hard bleachers and set the camera down between them. "You knew Mariah, right?"

Sasha kept her face down and picked at her fingers, which already looked to be in a sad state of disarray. The flesh around her cuticles was picked raw. "We met a long time ago. When we were really little we were on the same gymnastics team. Then we got older. I quit and started taking ballet instead, but that didn't last either. Mariah stuck with it, though. She went to state one year, but I heard she lost."

Bea decided to just directly come out with it. "Are you okay?"

"What? Me?" Sasha asked, lifting her face to look Bea dead on for the first time ever. Bea was struck by how pale the girl was. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm just tired."

"Did you get to bed late?"

Sasha shrugged.

Bea frowned deeply. "You should go get some rest."

She shook her head. "I want to stay a little longer. It's important. These kids… It might just be a story to you, but they were my classmates." She looked down. "I didn't know all of them, but… it's important to be here now, even if I wasn't there for them then."

"You knew Mariah though, right?" Bea asked.

Sasha had her eyes trained on the stage, where the counselor was standing to speak about how important communication was. She clenched her jaw. "That's not fair for her to say," She noted, referring to the counselor. "I think it's way more important for parents and loved ones to _listen_ to what their kids are saying. I don't buy that they didn't communicate enough. I just think maybe no one heard what they said."

"You're probably right," Bea acknowledged. "I'm sure the victims' families would agree with you right about now."

Sasha shook her head. "Too late now."

Bea squinted her eyes and studied Sasha closely, noticing how the girl kept her head down. She decided to come right out and ask. "Are you having suicidal thoughts, Sasha?"

The girl practically jumped out of her skin. She looked at Bea with wide eyes. "Me? No! I—crap. It did sound like that, didn't it?" She blew out a long breath and shook her head. "It's not like that, I swear. I'm just…"

Bea raised an eyebrow when Sasha didn't complete the thought. "What?" she prodded. Sasha sighed and looked away.

"Look, I lied, okay? On the bridge, when I said I hadn't spoken to Mariah since gymnastics, that wasn't true. I _did_ talk to Mariah. We had social studies together. No one knows that. Not even Diane."

Bea kept a level head and she slowly nodded. She braced herself for whatever this young girl might tell her.

Hesitantly, Sasha continued. She kept her voice low and leaned in. "She told me some stuff about her coach, and I thought… I thought maybe she needed to have some space from him. But I never thought she would try something like _this_."

"Her coach?" Bea frowned.

The bleachers vibrated. Sasha broke away to pull her phone out of her back pocket. After checking it, she quietly cursed. "I have to go," She said. "Diane is home early. She doesn't even know I came here tonight."

Before Bea had the chance to do much more than call out, Sasha was off the bleachers and speeding across the wooden floors. Bea stood and watched as Sasha dodged past people and tore out the doors.

Just as Sasha darted out, a woman wearing a deputy's uniform quietly entered the gymnasium. Bea stood from the bleachers and watched as the officer approached her dad, who stood near the stage. The officer tapped his shoulder and whispered something in his ear.

They broke apart and Sheriff said something to the Principal, who nodded. Sheriff cast one last look around the gym before he followed the officer out. And then, as if some scripted cue came from the universe at large, phones started vibrating.

People checked their phones slowly at first, and then everyone had their face in their screens. A murmur broke across the crowd.

Principal Thomas was making his way onto the stage and Bea stood on the bleachers to get a better vantage point through the crowd as he tapped at the microphone. Bea's phone vibrated, but she ignored it in favor of aiming the camera at the stage and zooming in.

Principal Thomas loudly cleared his throat. "Sorry to interrupt, but it seems there… there has been another body found on the shore at Riley Bridge."

Immediately, the crowd burst into disarray. Everyone was talking at once. Kids became anxious, clutching at each other's arms and as they tried to figure out if anyone they knew was missing. Bea's heart sped up as she thought of Stiles and tried to find his face in the crowd.

As she searched, the principal continued speaking. "I-It's all right! The authorities have things under control—"

"How can you say that?" A distraught parent called out. "Our children keep dying! You're the principal, and another one of your students has just been found dead, and you have the _nerve_ to say it's all under control?"

"Who was found?"

A quiet murmur of agreement rolled through the gym at the question, and Bea was somewhat surprised to see that it was Calvin who had spoken out to pose the question.

The principal stammered slightly and when there was no immediate response, the crowd became more frenzied. Parents and students started calling out names, asking if they were the one found.

Bea's eyes scanned all over the crowd. She saw people pushing, trying to move to the doors. The police officers that stayed behind had taken up positions at the main exit and immediately began to direct the foot traffic out to prevent anything so chaotic as a stampede from happening.

A girl nearby Bea was loudly crying, and she proclaimed something about Warren being missing. An older woman tried to give her calming reassurances but the hysterical girl broke away and sprinted through the crowd. Bea watched as she made a beeline for a side exit.

The girl shoved someone out of the way and crashed through the emergency exit. Alarms blared and flashed, and suddenly, all hell broke loose. Bea gasped as people darted around her in panic.

The person that the hysterical girl had pushed aside turned out to be the tall blonde girl who was in the Stilinskis' kitchen yesterday morning. Malia.

Malia made to chase down the girl who'd hastily pushed her into the crowd but a hand caught her by the arm before she could make it a full step. Malia snarled at the person that stopped her, who turned out to be Scott.

Bea was already hurrying in their direction. She saw Scott say something to Malia, who pointed angrily at the door the girl had disappeared through, and Scott shook his head.

"—chase down everyone who irritates you!" Scott seemed exasperated to explain.

Malia threw her hand up and jerked out of his grasp. "Why not!?"

"This is a school, Malia. There are rules."

"Guys!" Some other girl that Bea had never seen before interrupted. She had dark hair and a cute face, and for a second Bea came up short because she knew that was exactly the way Allison had been described. "Can we focus, please!?"

Malia's gaze locked on Bea. She stood straight and frowned. "What are _you_ doing here?" She asked, just as bluntly as Bea had remembered her to be.

"Hey," Bea said to Scott. "Is Stiles here?"

Scott blinked, taken aback to see Bea. He blinked as he stammered, looking straight at the side exit that he had just prevented Malia from charging through. "No—he—uh—stayed home tonight? He's at home. He had to study. You didn't see him?"

Bea smirked. "You've always been a terrible liar, Scott."

He opened his mouth to protest but Bea was already through the side exit. She stepped out and ignored the sound of Malia complaining that Scott hadn't tried to stop _Bea_ from going through the door.

She stepped out just in time to see the jeep pulling up to the curb. Stiles leaned over to yell at her and stopped short when he saw it was his sister. She felt a flood of relief at seeing him unharmed.

"Stiles!" She went to the passenger window. "Are you okay?"

"Where are the others?" He asked, ignoring her question. "They need to hurry up!"

"Where are you going?" She asked, instead of answering. The door popped open behind her and she knew without looking that the quick, frantic footsteps were those of the Scooby gang from the gym.

Malia didn't say a word, she just went to push Bea out of the way. The locks snapped in the jeep at the same moment that Stiles and Scott yelled at Malia. Bea swung her arms to catch her balance and Scott immediately steadied her.

"Malia!" Stiles yelled. "You can't _push_ my sister!"

"She was in the way!" Malia exclaimed. "I thought we were in a rush?"

"Malia," Stiles said again, quieter this time, his eyes locked on Malia's. "You cannot push my sister."

Malia focused her eyes on Stiles, and Bea spared Malia a strange look. "I'm fine." Bea forced out a snort that punctuated the awkward statement. "Seriously. As long as you all are okay, I'm fine."

Scott's frown cleared and he looked back at Bea and the girl from behind said, "Um, guys? We should really go."

"What's your name?" Bea impulsively asked, frowning at the pretty girl with the long, dark, curly hair. The girl blinked widely and then offered an awkward smile.

"Kira," She nodded. "Hi, I've heard a lot about you. But we really need to go."

"Where?" Bea asked, looking back at Malia, who was now jerking on the handle of the jeep.

Stiles made an urgent noise. "Okay! Okay, stop, before you break another piece of my jeep," He proclaimed, and the locks clicked. Malia wasted no time in crawling into the back. Kira gave Bea a sweet parting wave as she followed closely behind, much more gracefully.

Scott patted Bea's arm. "Good to see you," He said, which was a phrase that was apparently become a habit of his to say to her. As if he expected it would be the last time for a while.

"Yep," Bea said, even as he climbed into the seat and closed the door. She gestured at the vehicle with a frown, and Stiles shouted some incoherent parting to her as they pulled away.

Bea stood there alone on the sidewalk and watched the red taillights of the jeep lurch through the parking lot, taking corners and dodging other vehicles in their scramble to get wherever it was they were going.

Bea sighed and muttered, "Good to see you guys too. Love that you can't answer my questions. Love that you're all acting super suspicious. Love that I can't get a second alone with my brother. Happy freaking New Years."

She watched the jeep tear down the street and shook her head. The people from the candlelight vigil were still filing outside to their cars, and she sighed loudly and started across the sidewalk under the night sky, her feet dragging all the way to her bike.

* * *

The countdown commenced. A board spread across the bedroom depicted the life and death of four teenagers who came from Beacon Hills. The details were sparse, but the impact was heavy. Heavy enough to unite a community tonight. Heavy enough that it shook the whole gymnasium when another body was found near Riley Bridge.

Bea lifted the bottle of gin she'd uncovered from the deep recesses of her closet to her lips and took a long swig. She dropped it back down and lifted it to the screen of the TV on the opposite wall in her room. In Times Square, thousands of miles away, there were couples embracing and kissing each other into the New Year.

Bea took another drink of her gin and winced at the burn. "Ugh. Tastes like soapy Christmas trees," She told the evidence board. Bea lifted the alcohol to the board. "Cheers."

She tipped it back and drained it. When she set it down on the desk with a loud tap, the cap flipped off the table and landed on her carpet. She felt warm and the room spun ever so gently. She was officially buzzed.

How pathetic. Well, at least she wasn't roaringly wasted. She wasn't even drunk. But still, being tipsy alone on a New Years skirted the edge of a sad truth that she didn't want to examine too closely.

The door down the hall closed. Bea swiveled her head around, alert. Her brain rationalized that Stiles was clearly home. Odd, since it was just past midnight now. She would have figured him to stay with his friends to celebrate the New Year. But then, considering what happened to Allison, perhaps there wasn't much to celebrate.

Death changes so much in a life. Bea knew that. She hoped that Stiles and Scott had a strong enough friendship to withstand the test of losing a close friend. She knew death either had the power to break people apart, or bring them together. Clearly. Look at the state of her relationship with her family, even after all these years since her mother had passed.

Bea, feeling melancholy and pathetic, trudged out of her room and down the hall. She gave Stiles' door a few lazy knocks before she just took it upon herself to enter.

She found him, sitting at his computer. He immediately called out in surprise and closed the window he'd been looking at.

"I didn't say to come in!" He exclaimed, spinning his chair to glare at his sister.

She fell face first into his bed and ignored the fact that he seemed annoyed and offended at her. "People keep dying."

"What?" Stiles shook his head, unable to understand what she said when her face was squished into the blankets. "What are you _doing_ , Bea?"

Bea flipped over. "Ryan Seacrest just told me it was the New Year."

Stiles snorted. "Ryan Seacrest is an idiot. He tried to high five a blind guy."

A laugh tore from Bea's lips and she reached up to grab a pillow. She took a deep breath and pulled it to her chest. "Remember when we used to build forts?"

Stiles sat in his chair and stared at her. He looked away. "I'm trying to study," He said. "There's a paper I need to write for English and I haven't even started it yet."

Bea eagerly flipped over and crawled towards his desk. "Let me help! I can help! I went through college; I'm a pro at writing papers by now."

"You know I barely understood a word of that, right?" Stiles asked, focusing a critical gaze on his sister. She tilted her head. "You're drunk. Again."

"I'm not drunk. I'm talking in cursive." She lifted a hand to mime writing fluidly through the air. "Stiles has little feet and he smells bad."

He rolled his eyes. "That's very mature. You're twenty-three now, right?"

Bea fell over from giggling, mostly at her own joke.

Stiles laid his hand over his face and sighed. "Oh, my god," He muttered, though there was something that faintly resembled a tired chuckle hidden within the mumble.

Bea cleared her throat and propped her chin in her hand. "Stiles… I want to apologize for how… for everything."

He shrugged and ran his hand over his knee absently. "I get it. You can't always be here. You're twenty-three. You have a life."

"But I'm here now." Bea fixed him with a meaningful expression. "And… you can talk to me. I'm still Bea. I'm still your sister."

He looked away. "It's not that simple anymore, Bea. Things have changed." Stiles' face closed off and he seemed to draw his mind back to something. "I have a life now, too. There's so much you don't know." Bea stiffened. "Not like _that_. I'm not guilt tripping you for not being here! I said I get it and I do, okay? But that doesn't change the way things are."

"I know," Bea started, deciding to be as direct with him as she'd been with Sasha earlier that night, since she's found over the years that being direct and blunt is the best way to get a response from someone. "Allison, right?"

Stiles visibly flinched. His jaw clenched and he sat up straighter in his chair, like he wanted to physically remove Bea from his room. The glare he set on her was enough to communicate what he felt. A thought struck him, and his face changed again.

The tension drained from his shoulders and a shadow that Bea recognized well—guilt—fell across his face for just a moment before he gathered himself and cleared it away. When he spoke, it was much more measured than she would have expected. "I'll tell you about that sometime. But not tonight. Not after everything that happened at the candlelight vigil."

He must have meant the new student that was found dead, Bea realized. It would be hard to argue with him now. She sighed and rolled onto her side, closer to the edge of the bed, so she could swing her legs over and sit up. She teetered only slightly.

Bea ran a hand over her messy ponytail and focused her swimming vision on Stiles. "You knew Allison. Did you know any of the rest of them?"

Stiles popped the cap of his pen on and off. "No."

She didn't believe him. But something told her that if she pushed him, she'd get nowhere fast. Not tonight. "Dad said that you were there. When Allison was killed." She watched his reaction closely, saw how his features changed again and she wondered when he got so good at masking his emotions. He looked uncomfortable and in pain but Bea sensed there was more than just those shallow emotions. She decided to approach it from a different angle.

Bea rested her elbows on her knees to lean forward. "Can I tell you something I've never told anyone?" She asked, and Stiles took a breath and shrugged. Bea rubbed her lips together and folded her hands. "When mom died, I thought I would feel relieved."

Stiles' head snapped up and he frowned at Bea. He opened his mouth, but she put her hand up and shook her head.

"Let me finish. She did a lot of things, Stiles. Things that hurt us. Things that were wrong. And I know she couldn't help it, because she was sick. But I helped her cover those things up for a really, really long time."

Stiles couldn't seem to decide how to react. He shifted in his seat and rubbed his chin. "You were just a kid, Bea. We both were just kids."

She smiled sadly and shook her head. "I was sixteen when she died. That's old enough to know the difference."

"So what are you saying? You blame yourself? Bea, she was sick. She—"

"It doesn't change what happened. It doesn't change the fact that I lied to dad for way too long to cover for her, because we were both scared about what would happen to her if he knew. We were scared she would be taken away. And I thought I could take care of her on my own, that I could handle it."

Stiles shook his head and Bea sniffed loudly, looking at the posters on his wall. He said, "It wasn't in your control! I don't know how else to say this, Bea, but she was sick. Her brain was literally shrinking, okay? The parts of her that controlled her behavior and personality were literally atrophying. It changed her into someone else, and it wasn't your responsibility to take the blame for it."

"But by staying silent, I had just as much a hand in everything that happened—everything that went wrong—just as much as she did. And I was perfectly healthy." She paused. "I meant what I said. I thought when she finally died, I would feel relieved. But I didn't. Trust me, I understand what it means to feel guilty for someone dying because of something that's not in your control."

Stiles sat up, surprised. "H—" he scrunched his face. "How did you flip that around?"

She smirked and shook her head. "I'm talking about Allison now—"

"Yeah! I got that!" Stiles exclaimed in disapproval. He stood up and waved her off. "It's not even close to the same!"

"Really? The guilt isn't the same?" Bea sat back and crossed her arms. "You don't feel guilty about being unable to prevent Allison's death?"

Stiles was seriously pissed now. His face was so dark, she had never seen such an expression on his face before. He turned away, his fists balled at his side, and he looked ready to clear his desk off in a fit of rage.

"I don't see how you think it's fair to compare our experiences," He ground out lowly. "You don't even know what happened."

"Someone attacked her," Bea said. "It happened fast. Too fast to even see who did it. Way too fast to try and stop it."

Stiles turned to stare at her. "Who told you that?"

"Dad did." She crossed her arms. "He said she was mugged. You and Scott were there but neither of you were able to see the person clear enough to give a description of any kind."

Stiles looked away, his face a warring mixture of aggravation and grief. "What happened was…" He trailed off, unable to summon an appropriate description. His face said it all.

"I know." Bea reached out to grab his arm. He looked back at her, though she could see the wall he'd built between them plain as day in his familiar brown eyes, and it made her heart ache for him. "There's a name for what you're feeling. Survivor's guilt. You feel like you've somehow done wrong because you lived and she didn't."

Her words must have struck shockingly close to home, because he quickly withdrew from her touch and turned away. Stiles seemed to close in on his self and squeezed his eyes shut. "You don't know what happened."

"But I know how you feel," She reasoned. "You don't have to hide from me, Stiles."

For a long moment, he didn't respond. He just stood there with his eyes closed and let whatever pain and torrent of twisted emotions he was experiencing wash over him. Finally, he opened his eyes and nodded. They glimmered slightly, but he didn't cry.

"Kids keep jumping off that bridge and everyone's already forgotten about her." His voice broke with the first part and he turned to look at Bea. "And it pisses me off. It shouldn't, but it does."

"What would you like people to say?" Bea asked, and Stiles stiffened at the question.

"I don't know— _anything?"_ He snipped. "Anything at all? We have three memorials for the suicide kids in the school. Did you know that? _Three_ memorials. One in the main lobby, one on the lacrosse field, and one in the cafeteria. Tonight at the candlelight vigil, nobody spoke about Allison." Stiles settled slightly and went quiet as he shook his head. "All I can say is… I'm glad that her dad's in France, so he can't see any of this."

Bea let the admission sit for a moment before she responded. "What if you and the others put something together for her? You could make your own memorial for her."

Stiles looked at Bea as he thought about it. "You're right." He went to sit in his chair. "I guess we should… think of something. I'll ask Lydia and see what she thinks."

"Lydia?" Bea perked up, and went to jump back on his bed like a giddy girl. "Oooh, Lydia! Didn't you go to winter formal with her!?"

Stiles' face went fire engine red. He groaned loudly and let his head fall into his desk with a soft thud. "Don't remind me," He grumbled, and just like that—Bea felt an elation in her chest at the familiar feeling of teasing her baby brother again.

"Did you daaaance with her?" She asked in a sing-song voice. "Did you step on her feet?"

"Me?" Stiles guffawed, lifting his head to convey a skeptical and meaningful look at Bea. "Lydia would have heart failure if I stepped on her shoes and scuffed them up. No way, dad taught me to dance for a whole week beforehand."

Bea felt another pang of pain in her chest that was regret and guilt at not having been here to witness that for herself or help him in any real way. But that had been during the thick of one of her most recent stories, and she hadn't had the opportunity to split away and come home.

Instead of bringing this up, however, she asked if he had any pictures. Stiles' eyes flicked to the side and Bea followed his vision, seeing a framed photograph on his desk. Her jaw dropped.

"Stiles!" She squealed, already rolling across the bed, and the sound made him grit his teeth in annoyance and what may have been humiliation. "Let me see!"

She scrambled across the floor and dove for the frame at the same moment Stiles did. Being that she had a head start, Bea reached the picture first. She snatched it up and darted away.

"Look at you!" She gushed, her amused giggles coming out in snorted spurts. Bea covered her mouth and cooed. "Look! Your face was so red!"

Stiles' face was also presently splotched with embarrassment as well, and he rolled his eyes and mocked her laugh, and when he tried to make a grab for the frame Bea smacked his fingers away. Stiles sighed loudly and put his head in his hands.

"What is _that?"_ she exclaimed, pointing at his shoes. "Oh, those are awful! Who picked those out?"

"Bea!" He practically screeched, and she merely shoved him back when he tried to grab the frame again. "Stop it! Are you serious!?"

"You should have worn a solid shirt and a solid tie. Maybe just a plain white dress shirt and a nice, slate grey tie, with black pants. It would've matched her dress better."

He scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Thank you, What Not To Wear. At least it's better than Scott's. He wore a duct-taped suit to the formal."

Bea's face scrunched in distaste. "What? Why? On purpose?"

Stiles snorted, his lips playing at a smile. "Well, in his defense he didn't have many options."

"How was the dance, otherwise?" Bea asked. "I mean, I know you said you got to dance with her. Did you have an after party? There were always after parties when I was in school."

Stiles cleared his throat and looked away. "No—ah—no after parties that year. And I had to practically drag her out to the dance floor."

"Why?" Bea frowned. "She was your date to a _dance_ , and she didn't want to dance?"

"It's kind of complicated—"

"Wait a minute…" Bea stared at the picture. Stiles stood by the girl with his arm across her shoulders. He looked like he was making the extra effort to smile and make it a happy occasion, while the girl seemed to want to be anywhere but there underneath her perfect, glossy smile. "Wait! What happened to her boyfriend? Didn't she have a boyfriend? That was the whole thing about Lydia, wasn't it? You liked her but she was dating the lacrosse captain. Very cliché, by the way."

Stiles scowled at her. "It wasn't cliché." He paused. "Okay, it was a little cliché. But they were… on a break, I guess, at the time, and she needed a date. Scott and Allison were together, and Allison was best friends with Lydia, so I was the natural double date."

"That's a weird dynamic," Bea said, her eyes scrunched. "Very Ross and Rachel-esque. Because I specifically remember Scott was broken up with Allison at that dance. He was walking around like it was the end of the world. I remember from the Skype call we had, because when I commented on it you rolled your eyes and waved it off, and it was kind of the first time you guys had ever been so wrapped up in girls as far as I remembered."

Stiles blinked at her clear recollection of the events and she raised her eyebrows and nodded at him.

"It was a big deal. My baby bro's first formal date."

Stiles' expression broke and he rolled his eyes, the moment apparently ruined. "Shut up."

Bea smirked. "So what happened? Are you and Lydia together?"

Stiles' sigh was so heavy, Bea felt it from all the way over in her seat on his bed. "Well… not exactly, no."

"Not exactly, as in will-they-won't-they? Or not exactly as in nothing has changed and you still pine for her?"

Stiles pulled at the neck of his shirt uncomfortably and he cleared his throat. "I don't _pine_. And, well… we did sort of kiss." Bea gasped and perked up, but Stiles quickly put his hands up in warning. "Sort of! She put her lips on mine to help me breathe."

Bea paused, her eyes flitting to the side momentarily as she tried to figure out what he meant. "She… gave you CPR?"

Stiles smacked his head. "No! That's not what I meant. It was more… You know what? Why am I explaining this to my sister?"

Bea quickly tried to recover the moment. "Noooo!" She cried. "It's okay, I'm not judging! What do you mean? You kissed? That's great!"

Stiles' sarcasm kicked up to full blast as he said, "Yes, that _is_ the response I was hoping to hear the first time around, but the you missed the opportunity. Look, it's—" Stiles waved his hands spastically, the most familiar behavior she'd seen him display since she got back. "It's more complicated than that! That's not—okay—let's just stop talking about it now!"

Bea hid a smile behind her hand where she had settled back to watch her brother flounder for a response. "So you didn't kiss?"

"Yes, okay? I would say yes. There was definite... it was definitely kissing. Okay?"

Bea pursed her lips into a sly smile, shrugging a shoulder nonchalantly. "Okay." Stiles huffed nervously and brushed himself off. "But you're not together?"

He furiously shook his head. "She... it's complicated."

"And her boyfriend? Are they still together?" Bea tilted her head.

Stiles paused. "Who?" His eyes lit up. "Oh! Jackson!" Stiles snorted loudly and shook his head. "No, he left."

At Bea's questioning expression, he elaborated.

"He moved to London."

"What!?" Bea scrunched her face up at the ridiculousness of it and shook her head. "Why?"

Stiles shrugged a shoulder. "I didn't ask. The point is, he's gone, and there's about five thousand, four hundred and fifty four miles between Lydia and him. And an ocean. And an eight hour difference."

"So she's single?" Bea surmised. Stiles nodded. "And you're single."

He paused. "...Yes."

Bea smirked. "Well, we can fix that."

Stiles groaned and put his face in his hands. He mumbled something, but she couldn't make it out.

"It's good to be home," She said, with a warm smile that made Stiles pause.

Stiles reluctantly nodded in agreement, rubbing his hair into a wild mess like a dog shaking itself off. "Okay," He said, turning back to his computer. "Want to help me research about cures for hiccups?"

"I thought you'd never ask," Bea readily agreed, cracking her knuckles. "Oh," She paused and held her hand up at him. "I should warn you. I did drink some gin, but when I drunk research I find some pretty entertaining crap."

"You have experience at drunk-researching?" Stiles asked, and Bea gave him a pointed look. He sighed and seemed amused. "How much did you drink?"

She hummed and squinted her eyes, trying to recall. "Like… Three shots worth."

"Well, go get more," He said, turning to the computer. "Maybe you'll start hiccupping and we can test some of these cures out."

* * *

 ** _Thank you for reading! Hopefully this satisfied those requests for more Stiles/Bea interaction! It was planned for this chapter anyways, so it seems like it was just in the knick of time, because some of you were getting frustrated XD Which is what I was hoping you would feel! That's how Bea felt too!_**

 ** _Let me know what you thought of their dynamic, and what do you think Bea will find out next? More changes in Beacon Hills? More details about what she missed? More details about the suicides? Ooooohhh the possibilities ;D_**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** And so I'm back! From outer space! *snaps fingers to I Will Survive* Just kidding. I had finals and then I was in Ireland for a bit but now I'm home and classes are finished so I'll have more time to write :D Really quick before the chapter starts, I just want to correct a HUGE FREAKING MISTAKE I made in the last chapter. I'm pretty embarrassed about it.

Bea is NOT 26 YEARS OLD jfc I was so off idk what happened but she's actually 23.

I REPEAT! BEA IS 23 YEARS OLD! Okay? Okay. Sorry for the confusion. Hope you enjoy the update, otherwise! Please leave some reviews so I know what you're thinking of this fic too!

* * *

 **Halloween of 2000**

 **Beacon Hills, CA**

 **Stilinski House**

It's normal to misplace belongings every now and again. A set of keys forgotten here, a pair of glasses left behind there. Maybe even a forgotten credit card. For Claudia, things started small. An unsigned permission slip was more of a neglectful nuisance than the sign of an unwell mind. It was easy to explain these occurrences away. Until one night, when it wasn't so easy anymore.

That night came on Halloween. It was the year the first Scary Movie was released, and there were long white masks worn underneath black hooded robes running around every corner of every street in Beacon Hills, and they all yelled _Wazzup_ when they caught someone looking at them.

"Oh, look at you!" Claudia said to Bea, who emerged in the kitchen with a colorful, satin clown costume and hat. "Wait till my kids see you—" she leaned in as if to share a secret with the clown-girl, whispering behind her hand. "Stiles hates clowns, but I think Bea might be the one to watch out for."

Bea gave her mom a funny face. Ever since the museum debacle, jokes like that only irritated Bea nowadays. "Stiles doesn't hate clowns. He hates the dark. And I think he's going to try and convince dad to stay tonight."

Claudia leaned away and dropped the act. Tension pulled at her pretty features and she cast her gaze back to the large bowl that was half filled with candy in a lame attempt to disguise her thoughts from her daughter. Bea didn't miss any of it though, not for a second.

She saw as Claudia's jaw clenched and the way her shoulders tensed to suppress a sigh, and how easily she managed to tear the next bag of candied lollipops open and dump them inside. "Tonight's a big night for the department. You guys know that."

Bea looked away and grabbed a bag to begin helping her mother dump the rest of the candy into the bowl. She took a breath and sighed. "You said that about last weekend, too."

Claudia set the empty bag on the counter to fix Bea with a disapproving glare. "Well last weekend the high school lacrosse team played their rival school. Conferences happen and no one cares, but one game against that Prep school and it's like the whole town loses its mind—"

"Look, I'm just warning you." Bea scooped her hand into the bowl to mix up the candies, so there was a nice variety. She picked out a red lollipop. "It's all he's been talking about for the past week. He's got a whole plan."

Claudia raised an eyebrow at Bea for dipping into their candy bowl, but she didn't take the lollipop away from the twelve year old. "He's in kindergarten. What could he possibly have planned?"

"Claudia!" Noah yelled from their bedroom. "I can't find my badge! Have you seen my badge?"

Claudia snatched the bowl away just as Bea went to swipe a piece of chocolate. Bea snickered and Claudia called, "Did you check your nightstand?"

"I checked both the nightstands!"

"What about the dirty laundry?" Claudia set the bowl out of Bea's reach, on top of the fridge, and started towards the hallway.

"What dirty laundry?"

"In the hamper!"

"Well what did you do with the hamper?"

Claudia's voice rose with frustration. "What?"

Bea shook her head and giggled when Stiles came tiptoeing out from the hall around where their mother had just disappeared. He wore his dressiest shirt he owned, which was white and brown pinstriped and awful in Bea's opinion, and a pair of dark colored slacks. His belt was put on wrong and he had what might have been a tie around his neck that was tied in a bow.

Bea threw her head back and laughed at her little brother. Stiles stopped and put his hands on his hips. "It's against the law to laugh at this costume!" He declared, his little lips puffing out in indignation.

This just made her laugh harder and she shook her head. "Wait till dad finds out," she said, gesturing to the badge Stiles had taped to his shirt. "You know it has a pin, right?"

"Tape works better," He excused, looking around the kitchen—no doubt in search of the candy bowl. "Where'd you get that lollipop?"

"You just don't know how to use the pin," Bea accused, making sure to pop the lollipop loudly out of her mouth. Stiles glared at her and she made sure to look at him from down her nose. "Could've asked for help."

"I don't need your help!" Stiles shouted, going to stand on his tiptoes and look across the countertops. "Where's the candy?"

"Oh, so now you need my help?" She tilted her head, knowing the question was just enough to provoke her little brother.

"No!" He yelled. "That's not fair! Why do you always get the good stuff? You never share!"

Bea rolled her eyes and held a chocolate out to him. "Relax, twerp. Like I'd ever forget about you."

He gasped and his eyes lit up in glee. Stiles lunged to swipe the proffered treat from his sister's palm. "Snickers! Cool!"

She watched him greedily tear the plastic apart and pop the candy in his mouth like she was going to try and take it back. Once he was chewing, he paused to look wearily up at her.

"Sorry," He muttered. "I just thought you…"

She shrugged like it didn't matter and turned away. "I hope you have a backup plan for that badge. There's no way you can wear it tonight. Dad needs it, it's a big night for the station."

Stiles scowled behind her, following as she went in the dining room to grab a chair and drag it back into the kitchen. "It's _always_ a big night for the station."

Bea chuckled and went to scoot the chair against the side of the fridge. She stepped out of her overly long shoes and passed them over to her brother. "Hold these."

They were longer than his arms. He dutifully held them, though he watched her with confusion and suspicion. "What are you doing?"

"Bea! Get down from there right now, before you fall and break your neck!" Claudia scolded.

Bea quickly retrieved the bowl, which was slightly warmer from sitting on top of the fridge. She tossed a few random pieces of candy to Stiles, who immediately dove to the floor to scoop them up and stuff them in his pockets. He dropped her shoes in the process and Bea sighed.

"Stiles, where's your costume?"

Noah was at Bea's side, offering her his big hand to help her down from the chair with a mildly disapproving frown on his face. Stiles pushed the droopy end of his tie out of the way and clambered back from his knees to shrug at his parents. "I didn't like it."

"But you said you wanted to be a cowboy all year!" Claudia protested. "We went all the way to the city to find you the perfect one."

"I changed my mind!" He loudly defended. Stiles covered the taped on badge with his little hand and looked away. "I like this better."

"Wait a second—is that…" Noah crouched down in front of Stiles and reached over to his son's hand to gently remove it. "Where did you find my badge?"

Stiles shrugged, his head hung. "You're cooler than a cowboy."

Noah sighed and Claudia looked touched. Bea slipped back into her long clown shoes as her parents cooed over her little brother and waited for the other… well, shoe to drop, for lack of a better phrase.

After a long moment of praise, Noah finally told Stiles that he thought his costume was very cool. Stiles' little chest puffed up and he beamed at Noah.

"Your tie looks stupid though," Bea pointed out, snickering at the way the piece of fabric was awkwardly tied like a shoe. The only knot that Stiles knew.

"Bea," Claudia scolded. "That was mean."

"I'm not the one wearing a stupid red nose!" Stiles stuck his tongue out at her and Bea returned the gesture.

"Cut it out, guys," Noah intervened. He placed a thoughtful hand on Stiles' shoulder, considering the child's costume. "Why didn't you just get him the clip-on tie, like I suggested?"

Stiles seemed intrigued at the idea of a tie that just clips on and Bea bit her tongue to keep from pointing out that he likely would have just taped that on, too. " _Clip-on_ ," Claudia derisively snorted. "Absolutely not. No son of mine will be wearing a _clip-on_ tie—not as long as I draw breath."

Noah sighed at the dramatic response from his wife and shook his head. "Really?" He checked the time and sighed loudly. "Never mind. It's six o'clock. Buddy, listen," He took Stiles by the shoulders. "I'll show you how to tie your tie, but you have to give me my badge."

"But! Dad! That's the whole costume! How else will people know what I'm supposed to be?"

"What if you wore my hat?" Noah quickly suggested. "It's got a star on it, too. But I need my badge, buddy."

Stiles sighed loudly. "…Your hat?"

"You should wear it with your cowboy costume," Bea suggested. "That would look really cool."

Stiles perked up at the thought, and especially the part where his sister thought something he wore would look cool. He easily nodded and Claudia patted Bea's shoulder in appreciation.

Half an hour later, Noah had long since run out the door with his badge and the reminder for the kids to stick together that night while trick-or-treating. He swore to return with some treats of his own from the station, and with that mysterious promise, was gone.

It was nearing seven o'clock and getting close to time to head out. "Oh, Mom," Stiles said. "I told my friend I would go out with him tonight."

"Who?" Claudia paused from stringing the fake cobwebs across the corners of the doorframe in the front door. "What friend?"

"Scott," Stiles said, as though they should know who he was talking about. "He's from class, he's so cool. He has a bike with pegs. We're going to take it… around."

"Around?" Bea raised her eyebrows suspiciously but Claudia was oblivious.

"That sounds like fun, honey!" She held her hand down to Bea. "Why doesn't he stay the night, too?"

"Really?" Stiles gasped. "Oh, cool! We can watch scary movies!"

Claudia nodded with an easy smile. "How does pizza sound?"

Stiles was practically vibrating, and Claudia looked almost as excited as he was. She turned to Bea. "Hand me that tape, would you?"

Bea distractedly retrieved the tape from the table and frowned. "I don't want to go around with a couple of kids on a bike all night, mom!"

"What? No way!" Stiles whined. "She can't come!"

"Well you kids can't go around by yourselves, Stiles, you're not even six years old yet."

"God," Bea covered her face with a heavy groan. "I knew you were going to pull something like this."

"Shut up, Bea!" Stiles venomously snapped back.

"Kids! That's enough!" Claudia got down from the chair and turned to look at them. "Bea, you don't have to go around with them. I will."

Stiles stomped his foot. Claudia gave him a look of warning and the child put a lid on it, though he did cross his arms and pout.

"Who will hand out the candy?" Bea gestured at the two large bowls full of candy.

Claudia gazed at them hesitantly. "I was thinking… well, you, honey."

"Me!?" Bea squeaked. "But mom!"

Stiles snickered and Bea clenched her fists to keep from smacking the back of his head. "You're turning twelve next month, Bea. Aren't you a little old for this anyways?"

The hurt in Bea's chest was almost enough to overshadow how incredibly unfair she knew this was. Almost. "You're both being so selfish right now."

Claudia raised her eyebrows and Bea was at war with feeling ashamed and feeling betrayed. "Really? I think _you're_ being selfish, Bea."

Stiles wasn't laughing anymore. He was quiet and he looked down at the floor. It was silent in the house.

Claudia looked away, seemingly pondering something. She looked back. "You're the oldest, Bea. That means sometimes you have to make sacrifices if it means taking care of your little brother. You're old enough to know better." Bea hung her head and sighed. "What's Scott's last name, Stiles?"

"McCall," He answered, without looking up.

"I'm going to look them up in the phone book and call his parents so we can set this up. Maybe we can work something out that keeps everyone happy. Just give me five minutes, kids. Does that sound fair?"

They made identical noises of passive agreement, and Claudia disappeared into the living room to retrieve the phone. For a long moment neither of them said anything. Bea took a breath to quell the sting in her chest and cleared her throat.

She grabbed the chair with the intent of taking it back to the dining room table. "I'm sorry, Bea," Stiles muttered, his voice tiny. "I didn't mean it."

"Don't worry about it," she shrugged. "You're going to have fun tonight."

"But what about you?" He asked, his eyes large and full of guilt. "It's not fair."

Bea pressed her lips together. "Mom was right. I was being selfish. There's nothing wrong with you having friends. And if I'm here alone that means I can watch whatever scary movie comes on TV that I want. Even if it's rated _R_ ," she whispered.

Stiles grinned for a fleeting moment before he frowned deeply. "But…"

Bea poked his shoulder. "Grab me a tootsie pop if you see one, got it? The red kind."

Her brother smiled, though it looked somewhat hollow. As a thought struck him, his eyes lit up. He reached out to grab her wrist. "You could have a friend over too!"

There was a fleeting moment of hope for Bea, but it was just as quickly extinguished. Then she felt a deep sense of self-pity. "No," she said, turning her face away. She picked up the chair to carry it to the dining room. "I think I want to be alone."

What she couldn't say was the truth. Bea had no friends to really speak of. She couldn't say why. She'd never really made a lasting connection to someone in school. There was always a lot on her mind… mostly her mother. And by the time she got a better handle on things, it was too late. Kids had cliqued together.

That's the problem with a small town. There's really only one school in Beacon Hills, and all the kids are already friends. It just… didn't happen for her. At least not yet. And it didn't bother her too much, not really.

She didn't mind sitting alone at lunch, or being alone in general. It normally felt more like a choice, or a preference. She found it difficult to connect with girls her age. They just didn't share the same interests. And that was fine with her, because she would rather be alone then feel like she needed to fake her interests just to have friends.

This was the first time it really ever bothered her. And she knew there was no one to blame for it, and that feeling bad about it was useless and toxic. She could already feel it affecting her mood. She dragged the chair back to the dining table and trudged into the living room where she planned to sit down on the couch and stay for the rest of the night.

Claudia was hanging up the phone just as Bea came inside. She didn't look at her daughter as she continued to scribble something down on a notepad. "Scott's parents both have to work tonight," she said. "His mom is a nurse and his dad works in law enforcement, like daddy."

Bea sank onto the couch and crossed her arms. "So you have to go, then."

Claudia gave her daughter an apologetic smile. "We'll only be out until nine o'clock at the latest. When we're back, we can make pizza. How does that sound?"

"Pizza?" Bea lifted her head up to frown at Claudia. "With what ingredients? All that's in the pantry is junk food because you… we haven't gone shopping."

Unruffled, Claudia shrugged. "I'll just pick some stuff up, then."

It was that casual remark that would change everything for them, that spontaneous decision to do some fun cooking with Stiles' new friend for Halloween. With Claudia, plans change in an instant, and sometimes there's no warning and no way of knowing that things have gone horribly wrong unless you're around to see it happen.

That night, Bea was around. As she always would be. She saw everything.

After her mother and Stiles left, Bea settled in for a long night that was less about watching scary movies as she had hoped, and more about getting up every few minutes to pass candy out to trick-or-treaters.

As the night wore on her patience dissolved and before a full hour had passed Bea gave up on watching TV and decided to just move the chair back to the front door and sit with the large bowl in her lap, waiting for the doorbell to ring.

It wasn't too bad, all considered. She saw some great costumes and some stupid ones. There were plenty of crying kids and snickering teenagers. Sometimes one of the children would burst into tears at the sight of her clown costume, and that made Bea giggle for the rest of the night.

Nine o'clock approached and she waited in anticipation to meet this Scott McCall. She had a few stories on hand to tell her family so it didn't seem like she just sat around staring at the walls, bored to death and waiting for them to return. The long hand of the clock passed the twelve and Bea became more and more uneasy as it neared nine-thirty.

Nine forty-five came and went, and before she knew it, it was ten twenty-four and a couple of rambunctious kids came through the front door with two full bags of candy.

Bea had been expecting some sort of apology for the lateness of the hour, for the lack of a courtesy phone call to let her know not to wait up. She had been expecting her mom. What she got were two kids going on and on about the scarecrow from the porch on the house on the hill a few streets over, which had apparently sprang to life and scared the crap out of them.

She was able to squeeze where her mom had gone out of her hyperactive, sugar fueled brother. Apparently, Claudia dropped the kids with Scott's bike at the house about a half an hour ago. They rode around on Scott's bike, but stuck to the neighborhood—a rule that Scott had copied from his own mother's instructions whenever he rode his bike at their house—and then returned home.

Bea peeked out the front window and saw Scott's bike lying in the grass of their yard. It seemed that Claudia had gone to the grocery store. Another hour and a half passed before Claudia returned home. It was almost midnight by then, and Claudia didn't carry a single grocery bag.

The lights were out and Bea had just started to slip into sleep when the front door opened. A little earlier, Bea helped her brother set up a pillow and blanket fort in his room, and that's where she left them not long ago. She suspected they fell asleep quickly, or else they were reading comics by flashlight, because the light in his room was out.

Claudia didn't even take her shoes off when she came inside. She closed the door loudly behind her and went straight past Bea into the kitchen. Bea, having been too surprised at her mom's abrupt return to call out to her, watched silently as Claudia carried the bowl of leftover candy from the table by the front door into the kitchen.

It was like her mom wasn't even aware of who or where she was. All she focused on was the candy in the bowl, as she shed it of its wrapping and popped them in her mouth without chewing them completely.

"Where are the groceries?" Bea asked. She had given the boys PBJs for dinner, since it was all she knew how to make, but decided to wait for her mother so they could share the pizza they made together. Bea was famished, and feeling impatient and irritated with her mother's behavior.

Claudia jumped. She looked at Bea in surprise. "What?"

"The ingredients for pizza. Are they in the car?"

Claudia looked around the kitchen before answering. "What?"

"Mom," Bea frowned impatiently. "Come on. I'm hungry. Did you go to the store or not? Where have you been?"

Her mom considered the bowl of candy and scooted it across the table. "We can share if you're hungry."

Bea wanted to tear her hair out. "I don't want candy! I want real food, mom. I'm starving! I was waiting for you! Did you not get anything?"

Claudia seemed confused. "It's Halloween, we were trick-or-treating."

Bea smacked her forehead. "Oh, my god mom. Just forget it. I'll grab something from the fridge. Are the groceries in the jeep?"

Claudia hesitated before nodding, though it wasn't a very confident nod. Bea shrugged her concern off in favor of her irritation, holding on to all the hurt and anger that had brewed since she was forced to stay home that night in the first place. But when she stepped onto the porch to go retrieve the groceries, she came up short and all the anger and worry ghosted out of her.

The driveway was empty. Under the street lamps, it was like looking at an empty casket. Bea was confused and alarmed all at the same time. Then the anger returned, and she quickly retreated inside to confront her mother.

"Where's the jeep?" She asked without ceremony. Claudia had abandoned the bowl of candy and was rifling through the fridge. She stood up and turned to look at Bea in question. "It's not out there. What did you do with it?"

"It should be out there," Claudia said, the most clear response that Bea had heard since she returned. "Where else would it be?"

"I don't know!" Bea threw her hands up. "It's not there! What, did you forget it somewhere?"

She meant it as a joke. Said offhand, her question was intended more as a thinly veiled, passive-aggressive insult to her mother's increasing forgetfulness. But at the confused expression on Claudia's face, Bea could feel a numb sort of understanding settle over her.

"It should be out there," Claudia said again. She left the fridge to push around Bea and Bea watched as her mom hurried through the hall to the living room. She trailed slowly after her, seeing that Claudia was stuck in the open front door, gawking out at the empty driveway. "It should be here! I don't _believe_ this!"

Bea didn't think she had ever seen her mom quite so incensed before. But there was a lingering suspicion that clung to her mind like smoke on white walls, and she couldn't stop the words from crossing her lips. Her calm tone cut through her mom's wild ramblings. "You drove it home, right?"

Claudia turned on Bea and for a moment, Bea thought for sure she was going to hit her. Something in Claudia's face was wrong. It might have been the way her whole body tensed up at the unspoken accusation, or it might have been the way she looked at Bea. "Of course I drove it _home_ , you little shit," Claudia hissed. "Don't you get it? Someone _stole_ the fucking jeep!"

Bea didn't ask any more questions after that. Shell-shocked at her violent and uncharacteristic outburst, Bea just sort of retreated into her shell for the second time that night and stood quietly by to watch how the events would unfold.

That night, for the first time, Sheriff would come by the house on official business. They filed a report that the jeep had been stolen. They checked around the house. Nobody seemed to be able to explain for sure how or when the car had gone missing.

It wouldn't be until the following morning that they located the jeep in an empty parking lot near Riley Bridge. The driver door was open, the battery was dead and the gas tank was empty. Claudia's purse was missing.

So you see, it's normal for people to misplace things now and again. But Claudia? Claudia didn't just lose her keys. She lost the _jeep_. And no one but Bea knew the truth, because Stiles and Scott were too young and oblivious to understand, and Noah hadn't been there when it happened.

The official story is that the vehicle was stolen out of their driveway. It would be another few months before Bea was able to fully realize what actually happened. But whatever the case may be, Bea would never look at her mother the same after that Halloween.

* * *

 **January 2012**

 **Beacon Hills, CA**

 **Stilinski's Garage**

For the first time since Bea had returned home, everything felt a little easier; a little more natural, and she knew it came down to the fact that she and Stiles were on speaking terms. It was the morning after Bea had stayed up to help Stiles write his paper for English, the first day of 2012, and it was the first time she didn't feel the walls closing in on her.

He stood with her and they stared at her bike. "It's… not that bad," Stiles said, unconvincingly.

Bea covered her face. "Not that bad? Stiles, I have to go to the police station! Today! Right now!"

"Aaand you're afraid triple A won't help if you get a flat tire," He guessed, purposely pretending not to understand why she was embarrassed.

She smacked him on the shoulder. "Shut up!" She said. "It's not funny."

"You know what? If anyone says anything, tell them you're a vegan saving the environment. Getting preachy about climate change really seems to repel people. I have a pretty good line about fossil fuels that would be perfect if you'd be willing to give me credit when you use it."

Bea scrunched her face at him. "Really? _You_ get preachy about fossil fuels? What gives you the right? I'm pretty sure your jeep runs on diesel."

He scoffed loudly, his jaw dropped. "Hey! That's incredibly offensive! You know we can't figure out why my exhaust burns black. It's not _diesel_ , it's just… at this point I think it burns gas at a faster rate than the sun."

"Right," Bea patronized with a nod. "That's much more reasonable."

"Fine, you know what?" Stiles tilted his head at her and shrugged. "Consider my offer rescinded. Good luck explaining that bike, Amelia Bedelia."

Bea barked out a loud laugh and smacked her brother's shoulder. At that moment, the door of the garage opened. Their dad came out and looked at them with some amount of pride and relief on his face, no doubt in reaction to seeing his kids laughing together again.

"Amelia Bedelia…" Bea said to Stiles, a grin on her face as their dad approached. "When did you get funny?"

"When did you get a sense of humor?" Stiles countered, and Sheriff's car keys jingled as he switched hands to adjust the way his holster sat at his hip.

"What's so funny?" He asked.

"Nothing—"

"Bea's bike—"

"Stiles!" Bea's jaw dropped and her brother threw his hands out defensively. "You little liar!"

"Why don't you just ride with dad to the station?" Stiles suggested.

Sheriff seemed open to the idea but Bea shook her head. "Because. I won't be at the station all day. I have plans."

"Oh?" Sheriff asked, his eyebrow raised. Stiles fixed an identical expression of interest on her and Bea looked between both of them for a moment before she responded.

"Interviews. Plans. Research—you know, _work?_ I've got a day job, guys. I'm not exactly here on vacation." She took the kickstand out from her bike and prepared to walk it to the sidewalk. "Parrish will be at the station this morning, right?"

Sheriff waved his hand at the stupid question. "Of course," He said, making his way over to his car.

Bea considered her words before she spoke, her brother's curious gaze glued to them the whole time. "Any chance you could tell me who was found on the shore last night?"

Sheriff stopped to lean against his open door with his hand over the top of his car to purse his lips at her. "On a cold day in hell, maybe. You shouldn't even know that much. Principal Thomas needs to learn what it means to be _discreet_."

And with that, Sheriff got into his car and the sound of his door shutting reverberated over the open garage she and Stiles still stood in. He gave her a sympathetic shrug.

"I'll make donuts tonight!" She bribed as her dad started the car.

"Ha!" Sheriff lifted his hand out the open window to wave at her. "I look forward to it!"

She watched, dumbfound and gripping the handlebars of her ten-speed, as his car reversed out of the driveway. Sheriff gave a smug honk and Bea tore her eyes away from the vehicle as it retreated down the street to gawk at her brother.

"Wait… am I really going to have to make donuts?"

All Stiles could do was laugh and shrug unhelpfully. "You're supposed to be good at talking people into things, remember?"

"Yeah," Bea grumbled. "But dad isn't _people_."

He snorted in agreement.

* * *

Bea always thought Beacon Hills was a sleepy city. The population was far from small, with probably somewhere between thirty and thirty-five thousand people living in the city, while more like five _hundred_ thousand people in all called Beacon County home. At least, that's what her father claimed, and she supposed as the Sheriff, he would be in the position to know numbers.

Despite the healthy population, Bea could only recall the station filled to capacity with worried citizens one other time. Right now, when she stepped inside, she saw parents filling the benches. Some of them wore shirts with the names of kids who had already been found. Some of them were on edge, like they were convinced that the newest body found last night had to be their daughter or son.

"Please," A woman practically wailed. The back of her ponytail was oddly familiar, but it was her voice that ultimately clued Bea in. The woman from the bridge. Sasha's sister. She looked like a wreck. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her nose looked raw as though it'd been rubbed too many times by a tissue. "You don't understand, Sasha wouldn't just—just disappear!"

"I'm not suggesting that she would—" The officer tried, but Diane cut him off.

"Then please take me seriously! Just tell me! Is it her or not?" The woman smacked her fist on the counter. " _Tell_ me!"

"Hey, hey," Bea intervened, unable to stop herself. "It's Diane, right?"

The woman practically backhanded her, she was so jumpy. Bea took two large steps back and kept her hands visible to make sure everyone knew she wasn't trying to jump the poor woman. Diane seemed surprised to see her and was instantly suspicious.

"What are you doing here? Why do you keep showing up?" She frowned. "Are you _stalking_ us?"

The officer raised his eyebrows and Bea threw her hands out. "Hey! Whoa! No!" She looked at the officer and pointed at him. "No. I'm here for an interview with..." All of the sudden, Bea realized they had an audience. All the concerned parents were watching in rapt attention to find out how Bea planned to get back and talk to the police. She tore her gaze away to look back at Diane and the officer. "You know what? It doesn't matter. I'm here on business, but I overheard you and it sounds like Sasha is missing?"

"She didn't come home last night." Diane sounded absolutely miserable. "I practically raised her and she's never just skipped out on coming home. Not without telling us first. And then a _body_ is found. How can that... how can that be coincidence?"

"It might not be as bad as you're thinking," Bea soothed. "And besides, if it was Sasha, they would have to tell you."

Diane blinked at that. She looked at the officer behind the counter. "Is she right?"

The officer, someone Bea knew by face and name tag alone, gave a nod. "Of course. I was just trying to say that. I can't tell you who was found, but I can tell you this much: it wasn't your little sister."

Diane sighed in relief and let her head fall into her hands. Slowly, another sob racked her body. "Well... then where is she?"

"You should file a missing person report," Bea suggested. "I'm sure there are some officers who can go looking. Right?" She turned to the man behind the desk who nodded easily and slid Diane form that he'd already had sitting on the desk waiting for her.

"See? And I'm sure they can find someone you can talk to."

Over the woman's shoulder, Bea and the officer made eye contact. He raised an eyebrow at her in recognition and she took that as permission to continue past the mass of people and into the less crowded hall. As she left the Diane and the noise behind her, she opened her messenger bag to retrieve her notes.

Just off the cramped lobby, the station opened into a larger space that held several desks. Usually an officer was stationed at each desk but this morning most of them were empty, and Bea didn't have to wonder why. She spotted Parrish at his desk with his fingers knotted in his hair as he poured over some paperwork.

"Late night?" She greeted.

He let out a small gasp and nearly jumped out of his chair in surprise. Parrish looked up at her and then his eyes naturally drifted over her shoulder to the noisy lobby uncertainly. Then, just as quickly as the expression came, it left and he offered her an indulgent grin as he pushed his paperwork away and closed a thick file. "You have no idea," He sighed.

"Oh, don't stand up." Bea waved him off and Parrish stopped halfway out of his chair. "We've already met and it's better to get comfortable for interviews anyways."

Parrish froze and then slowly lowered himself back into his desk chair. "Ahhh…" He seemed to struggle with a response.

The door of an interrogation room down the corridor to their left opened and Bea watched as her dad made a beeline for his office. It closed and Sheriff had managed to cross directly in front of Parrish's desk without even noticing her.

She gave Parrish a bemused expression, and he couldn't help but grin. "It's really hectic today… Uh, Bea."

"Because of the body that was found last night?" She presumed.

"That," Parrish nodded. "And because people always get into trouble over the New Year. The holding cells are filled to capacity right now with drunk drivers and people who…" He trailed off, his eyes flickering towards her dad's office. At her questioning gaze he reluctantly finished his thought. "I guess a reporter might use the term _protestors_."

"Protestors?" Bea frowned. "What are they protesting?"

Parrish shrugged but looked tense. "Think about it. It's our job to keep people safe. We're the police. But kids keep dying; the public is scared and they need someone to take responsibility."

"And they've dumped the blame onto the Sheriff's office?" Bea asked with a scrunched face. "How is it your fault that teens are committing suicide?"

"They're claiming that the reason a suicide barrier wasn't built onto Riley Bridge years ago is because the station received funds for new vehicles and training equipment."

Flabbergasted, Bea stared blankly at Parrish for a long moment. Her dad's office door opened again and he held a cardboard box under his arm. He closed the door with one hand and turned to head straight for the interrogation room he'd left, but came up short when he spotted Bea.

She recognized a flurry of reactions across his face, but the one that caught her off guard was the brief flash of panic. Bea sat up straighter and her dad, now calm and collected, made a pit stop by his deputy's desk. "I'm a little busy today, Bea," He said. "Do you think we could reschedule that interview?"

Bea nodded and watched him carefully. "Sure, but you're not off the hook."

He grinned ruefully, the action causing familiar creases to wrinkle his aging face. "Of course not."

She was expecting a bit more conversation, but she and Parrish were left to watch her dad hurry back into the interrogation room. She watched the closed door for another moment before she put a lid on her curiosity and decided that—for the moment—she would leave it alone. When Bea turned back, she recalled what they'd been discussing before they were interrupted. "What about the high school?"

Parrish blinked at her. "What?"

"The high school," She reiterated. "There's been a ton of renovations to that place since I graduated. But the public doesn't even bat an eye at that? You guys get some Kevlar vests and a couple cars, but that school gets a whole new _building_ and no one thinks about how much that must have cost the city?"

Parrish raised his eyebrows and sighed as he considered her point. "Well… I'm still pretty new here, but as I understand it the renovations to the high school were privately funded. Mostly." He paused to grin facetiously. "I think the city paid to have a plaque installed in the new lobby."

Bea was slack jawed. "Who would foot that kind of a bill?"

He looked reluctant. His face was oddly tight, like he almost didn't want to continue on this trail, and that only encouraged Bea. She could sniff out conspiracies like a fox hunting prey. Parrish made a noise of hesitancy. "You know, this… is starting to feel like gossip." He frowned. "I don't _gossip_."

Bea snorted and sat forward in her chair, giving Parrish an easy grin. "It's not gossip. It's an interview. I have to ask you questions, Parrish. That's how this works."

"Oh." He shook his head. Quietly, he mulled something over. After a long moment he sighed and drummed his fingers against the closed file on his desk. "I… guess it isn't confidential information or anything like that." He looked up at her, almost like he wasn't sure if it was a good idea to share this or not, despite her reassurances. "There were some businesses who helped out. But... a local family paid for the majority of it. The Argents, specifically."

"The—" Bea looked away, her mind racing. " _Oh_."

Parrish didn't interrupt and allowed Bea to process the information. He looked like he immediately regretted being so honest, so he busied himself by pretending to straighten his desk a little, shuffling some files and knickknacks around.

"Right," She finally managed. "That… right. So. Anyways." She shook her head and as her mind spun with theories, she quickly pulled at the hair tie she kept around her wrist to throw her hair up into a messy ponytail and asked Parrish to wait just one second as she frantically wrote down a large passage of notes.

He looked like he wanted to take the pen out of her hand. Bea would feel bad about pushing him if she wasn't so excited about what he had to say. She included the protestors and the suicide barrier, but mostly she wrote a large addendum to the Argent family. Bea knew that she would _have_ to do some research and look into them as soon as she could.

By the time she was finished, Parrish had become distracted by something on his computer. She cleared her throat to recapture his attention and he glanced at her before realizing that they were ready to continue. Closing whatever it was he had been reading, Parrish politely faced to her to signal that he was ready.

 _Just like ripping off a bandage_ , Bea thought. _Do it quick and get it over with._

She put her shoulders back and took a breath. "Would you say there's any validity to the rumors that these deaths are part of a suicide pact?"

If Parrish had been taking a drink, this would be his spit take. "Sui— _Suicide_ pact?" He gaped. Bea shrugged defensively. Parrish shook his head insistently. "Who's saying anything about a suicide pact?"

"Parrish, come on." She turned her head to smile at him from the corner of her eye. "I can't reveal my sources anymore than you can."

He practically stood up. He definitely sat forward, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair. "Bea, that sounds like more than just a rumor! You can't walk into the police station and ask the deputy about rumors of a suicide pact and then refuse to talk about where you heard it!"

She leaned away.

Parrish's tone raised an octave. "People are dying!"

"I _know_ that!" Bea frowned. "It's pure conjecture! Well, sort of. It's more like an inference."

Parrish shrugged pointedly at that and shook his head. "What does that mean?"

Slightly exasperated at what she felt was an overreaction, she sighed before she explained. "I mean, what are people supposed to assume? These kids are all the same age. They're found near the same bridge, around the same area, in a pretty predictable pattern of time. Once a week, for the last five weeks."

Parrish slowly sank back into his chair as he connected the dots she laid out for him.

"It could be coincidence," she continued. "Or, it could be a group of teens who agreed to commit suicide at the same place, once a week."

"But _why_ would they want to do that?"

Bea pointed her pen at him. "That's a good question. If they knew each other… maybe we can even find out the answer."

Parrish seemed to consider the possibility. He shook his head as if to clear it and crossed his arms. "There's no proof that any of these kids knew each other before they jumped off Riley Bridge."

"Really?" She frowned, skeptical. "How is that possible? They went to the same high school. They were in the same grade. You're saying that none of them were friends?"

Parrish raised his eyebrows. "Not according to the people we've spoken to."

"And they would be…"

Parrish gave her a dry, unimpressed look. But at her insistent gaze, he said, "Family, of course, and friends. Who do you think?"

Bea made a quick note, and Parrish took the opportunity to rub his face.

"I think we should stop," He said. "I shouldn't say anything else."

"Why?" Bea asked. "If they're suicides then aren't they closed cases?"

Parrish didn't get the opportunity to properly respond. His phone rang, startling them both. He recovered first and pointed at the ringing object. "I have to take this."

Feeling like she was about to be politely kicked out, Bea gathered her notes. She turned around to grab her bag and noticed the interrogation room open again. Through it, she saw her dad emerge. His eyes immediately flashed to her and he looked reluctant about something.

Intrigued, she watched as Sheriff held the door open for whoever was following him out and when she saw who was on the other side, her heart stopped. She couldn't believe it.

"Derek!" Sheriff suddenly proclaimed. He stepped in front of Derek Hale, blocking her view of him so he could point to something inside the interrogation room. "You forgot your phone."

 _Derek Hale!_

It was like seeing a ghost. Bea felt her whole body freeze over and her heart exploded. She felt an actual physical reaction—literally like someone sucker punched her in the gut with a bag of bricks—and for a moment she forgot how to breathe. She spun back around while they were distracted by his phone, terrified that he would see her.

Desperate to escape, Bea threw her things together and practically leapt out of her seat. She didn't even thank Parrish before she scrambled away and lost her pen. Her instinct as an English major and a reporter demanded that she stop to retrieve it, but when she turned she caught sight of her dad—once again taking his time coming out of the interrogation room—and she knew Derek was soon to follow him out, and she panicked.

 _Derek_! Derek and her _dad?_

"What is _happening?"_ She hissed to herself as she fled and chanted a silent apology to her abandoned pen.

It wasn't possible to exit through the main lobby because she would be forced to pass the very person she was running from. Instead, she booked it down the closest hall she could find and burst out of a side exit.

Bea rushed down the exit ramp and fumbled to keep hold of her notes. Her messenger bag flopped against her legs as she rounded the corner of the building. There was still a fair amount of people milling around the entrance, and she was forced to dodge around protestors with picket signs and someone walking their dog.

The animal was barking its head off like it had lost its damn mind, and it lunged for Bea and caught the bottom of her bag. She squeaked in surprise and fright and yanked against the dog's grip, which she knew was likely a mistake.

"Kaleo!" The owner yelled at the dog. "Drop it!"

The dog defiantly tugged against her, and with a mighty tearing noise, Bea was left with a ripped bag. She didn't have time to neatly gather her things, so she just scooped them up as soon as the owner had dragged their dog a couple of feet away and ignored their profuse apologies.

Bea dropped her books to the ground by the bike rack and though it took a few attempts with her shaking fingers, she was able to retrieve her bike in record time. Some people were taking notice of how frantic she was and she was starting to draw some attention, but she ignored them all and hurriedly gathered her books into her lap.

She didn't even make it a full three feet down the sidewalk when she rammed into someone crossing in front of her and all the books were knocked off her lap and scattered across the ground. A couple of stray papers fluttered away and Bea almost laid her bike out.

Bea's knee, elbow and ankle all stung with dull pain, but the sheer amount of adrenaline pumping through her veins was enough to gift a chicken with flight so it didn't distract her from noticing just _who_ she ran over with her bike.

Derek Hale.

"Bea?!" He looked just as shocked to see her. He was so much older—so much _bigger_ now, and she almost didn't recognize him. She might not have if it wasn't for—as weird as this sounded—the way his eyebrows shot up and then immediately sank down together in bewilderment.

Bea managed to make a sound that was caught somewhere between human and panicked pterodactyl. She haphazardly retrieved her books and took off again on her bike, retreating down the sidewalk in a perfect picture of social grace and athletic form.

Farther down the sidewalk, Derek stooped to collect some of her forgotten pages and frowned at what he caught in her notes. He looked back up to watch as she fled the station and left him behind.


	6. Chapter 6

**January 2001**

 **Beacon Hills, CA**

 **The Hale House**

Fifth grade marked the year everything changed for Bea. It was the year of _The_ Halloween—you know which one—and it was also the year that she met Derek Hale.

Their music teacher was pretty big on including his students in everything. He wanted everyone to be friends, and he noticed very early on that Bea didn't have any. It became a habit of his to single her out during songs, almost as though he felt it was his mission to make sure she was having fun and interacting with her classmates. Bea shied away from being made the center of attention, anyways, and thought this teacher _especially_ was an idiot.

What he apparently didn't realize was _obvious_ to everyone else. He made such a big deal about having fun with each student that it didn't come across as the special treatment he thought he gave. If you tell every single kid in the class they're talented enough to sing with all the Barbs—Streisand, Cook or otherwise—it stops feeling personal.

It didn't end there, of course. No, no. He also kept track of every student's _birthday_. The birthday boy or girl would get to wear a hat and choose the song the class sang. And when November 7th rolled around that year, Bea learned two very important things about herself. One: she didn't know very many songs. Two: she shared a birthday with Derek Hale, who thought the song released earlier that summer called Who Let The Dogs out by Baha Men was absolutely hilarious.

They spent the entire hour and thirty-minute music class separated from their classmates together, and to Bea's great surprise… they hit it off. They bonded over complaining about their respective annoying siblings and before Bea knew it, Derek asked her to build model rockets with him for their science fair that year. It shouldn't have been that simple, but it was. They spent time at the school over the holiday break constructing the rockets and now all that was left to do was set them off and record the results.

Bea insisted there was no way they could bring the rockets anywhere near her little brother without him sabotaging it somehow, and Derek agreed based on the stories he'd heard Bea tell him. He warned her of his youngest siblings, twin brothers, claiming that they might try to get in on the action, but assured her if he asked his mom to keep them occupied it probably wouldn't be an issue. That's why she found herself standing beside him now, gawking up at the towering manor on the hill.

 _I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but I'm getting serious The-Fall-of-the-House-of-Usher vibes from this place._ "It's..." She struggled to find the words. "Impressive."

Derek looked pleased for a moment until he turned a critical eye on the house itself. He scrunched his face and looked back at her. "Really? But Michael's got a bigger house than me."

Bea raised an eyebrow. "Michael? You mean Michael Springmeyer?"

Derek nodded and started across the grassy yard to his porch. "Yeah. His house has an indoor pool. And an _elevator_."

" _What?"_ Bea's jaw dropped and she tore her gaze away from the humungous house. She tried to imagine what it would be like to have an elevator in her house. _Wow_ , she thought. _Think of all the valuable time I'd save_... She decided then, to have an elevator in her house when she was older. The wind blew her long ponytail over her shoulder and she said to Derek, "Michael's dad owns that factory in the city, though. They could probably afford a second house in Malibu if they wanted."

She meant it as a joke, and perhaps some consolation. But Derek shook his head and looked at her with earnest eyes as he corrected her. "No, it's in Toronto, not Malibu. That's where his mom is from."

Bea stared as she tried to process the fact that Derek thought all of this was normal. She scrutinized his features with narrowed eyes, naturally suspicious of outlandish proclamations like that because she had _Stiles_ for a brother to deal with every day.

Somehow, Stiles had already picked up on sarcasm, and he was thick into the habit of making things up because he thought being sarcastic meant saying things that weren't true. Bea and Claudia were working hard to break him of the habit before it grew into a real problem but she didn't see the trait changing any time soon. Still, Derek didn't wear that telltale expression that her little brother couldn't keep off his face when he thought he was being smarter than you, and Bea gathered that Derek didn't even realize he'd said anything unusual.

She looked away, her hands going to her hips as she continued to notice new things about the land his family owned. "You should be proud of your house," She finally said, and Derek almost looked admonished.

"Where do you live?" Derek sounded genuinely curious. He was a natural conversationalist, and Bea found it was easy to talk to him.

"601 Sherwood Avenue." There was a pause as Derek waited for her to elaborate, no doubt expecting her to describe how much smaller hers was than his, but she just looked around his porch at things.

"Oh," He finally shrugged, watching her inspect his home.

Bea pointed at something near the end of the porch. "Is that a telescope?"

"Yes," Answered a woman's voice, and Bea jumped like someone had attacked her. Derek snickered at her and Bea looked behind her to see a tall woman with long dark hair wearing clothes that were nothing like what her own mother would wear. "We've had it for a couple of summers but no one has touched it for months," she explained, and her feet were bare as she stepped across the porch.

Bea inched ever so slightly closer to Derek, her gaze never leaving the unfamiliar woman who seemed to manifest from the shadows themselves. For his part, Derek grinned at his friend's trepidation but politely ignored her nervousness. "Mom, is it cool if we set off rockets?"

Whatever Talia was expecting him to ask, that apparently wasn't it. She stared at them with the same polite expression she wore before he asked frozen on her face. If Bea wasn't suddenly so awkward, she might have even giggled.

"For class," Derek clarified.

Talia's gaze flicked to Bea. "As long as you promise me not to do anything stupid, Derek. Don't get your new friend hurt. Do you hear me?"

Derek looked somewhat exasperated and rolled his eyes. "Obviously!"

"Derek," the woman said again, her tone more serious than Bea really thought the situation called for. Her eyes burned into her son. "I'm serious. You be careful. Do you understand?"

Derek wouldn't look at Bea. He sighed loudly, more of a petulant groan than a breath. "Yes!"

"Good," Talia nodded.

Bea took note of that odd conversation as she remembered her manners, knowing that if her dad were here he would be shaking his head in disappointment. "Er, hi… Mrs… Hale. I'm Bea." _Definitely_ , he would be shaking his head and probably glaring at her.

Talia turned her attention onto the young girl and she offered her a warm smile that reassured her. "You can call me Talia."

"Mom, you _have_ to keep the twins inside," Derek suddenly pleaded, looking at his mom like it was the single most important task she could possibly manage for him.

"You already know they're grounded, Derek," Talia dismissed with a wave. "They'll be inside scrubbing toilets for the next two months after what they did."

"What did they do?" Bea asked, unable to help herself. Talia's face hardened at the memory but Derek was focused on Talia in disbelief.

"You're going to let them near the _toilets?"_ Derek gaped. "That's a horrible idea!"

Talia gave him a look of warning. "I can't just trap them in their room, Derek. They'd have the furniture pulverized in under ten minutes."

"They flushed Cora's goldfish!" Derek exclaimed. "Why would you make them clean the toilets?"

"Poetic justice." Talia crossed her arms. "Do you have a better suggestion?"

"Actually, yes. I'm glad you finally asked." Derek crossed his arms back at his mother and told her he had a list of punishments that he'd been adding to ever since they ruined his best soccer ball. "Make them listen to the Barney theme song for an hour straight. Let one of them go to the arcade, but only one, and make _them_ choose which one has to stay behind to help me mow the property."

Bea grinned secretly behind her hand at his... let's call it _ingenuity_. Talia scrunched her face. "I'm trying to discipline them Derek, not torture them."

Derek sighed sharply and rolled his eyes. "If you say so. They just better not mess with our experiment. It's for a _grade_ , not for fun."

Bea quickly added, "But it'll be pretty cool, too."

Derek glanced at her from the corner of his eye and his lips twitched in amusement. "Yeah." He looked back at his mother and raised his eyebrows in an unspoken challenge.

"You think I don't know how to occupy my own children?" Talia tilted her head at Derek and Bea felt the awkwardness pour over them as Derek's seemingly valid points were smacked out of the air by one harsh glare from his mother. She put even his best scowl to shame. Bea was simultaneously impressed and worried on Derek's behalf.

Apparently Derek had nerves of steel because he merely gave his mother a nod and wisely chose to drop the subject. Bea couldn't shake the feeling she'd just witnessed some sort of unspoken duel, like the Hales communicated largely in body language and Bea was still too slow to comprehend the meaning just yet. Whatever went unsaid between them, Derek felt a subject change was in order. "Bea thinks we live in a mansion," he relayed, as though it was a joke. Bea blushed and crossed her arms defensively. Hadn't she said to be _proud_ of that fact? So why was he now mocking it to his mother?

"Does she?" Talia raised a single dark eyebrow. Going by her tone, she hadn't so easily dropped Derek's insolence, but she was apparently willing to play along if only for Bea's benefit. "And what did you say?"

Derek shrugged and Bea felt the need to speak for herself. "It's lovely," She amended. Her eyes wandered back to the house that looked like something out of an old film her mom sometimes watched. "I like the how tall the windows are. I wish we had that many windows."

Derek, befuddled, asked, "Why?"

Bea shrugged. "I like the stars. I go on my roof a lot to look at them."

"There _are_ a lot of windows, aren't there?" Talia observed, like it was the first time she'd noticed it herself. The sun had just started to set when she and Derek arrived at their house, and now it was low enough to glare harshly off all the windows. It was enough to force Bea to avert her gaze when she tried to look where Talia looked. Talia stared at the house thoughtfully for another long moment and then looked back at the children, her gaze sticking to Derek. "I'll be right inside, should anything happen. _Be_ careful."

Derek grumbled to himself as his mom went back inside. After she left, he showed Bea around the side of the porch to the back yard and they began to set up the experiment.

"Where are the rest of your siblings?" Bea wondered aloud. The backyard was spacious and there were plenty of toys and things lying about, but there didn't seem to be any children around to make use of them. Bea was, by then, used to dodging around Stiles and Scott while they ran around like little maniacs. She understood that the twins were grounded but that didn't account for the others.

Derek barely looked up as he adjusted the launch pad. "Cora stays in her room a lot. Don't ask me what she does, I don't know. She likes to be left alone and I don't think she likes to be outside all that much."

Bea hummed thoughtfully at that. Derek was so… physical. Even at that age, it was obvious that he spent a lot of time outdoors because he had a natural tan that never seemed to fade and he talked about the woods by his house a lot. She'd assumed that his whole family would be similar, but she realized at that moment that to lump the rest of his family in with him was unfair because she and Stiles were practically worlds apart.

"What about Laurie?" Bea asked, leaning down to help Derek slide the rocket over the launch rod. They took a moment to adjust the way it sat and make sure it looked like the pictures they found in the instruction manual.

"Laura," Derek eventually corrected, after they got the rocket to sit correctly. A smirk appeared on his lips and he glanced up at Bea as though there was some private joke she didn't know about. "A couple of months ago she started hanging out with this guy we've known for forever—his dad is… close friends with my mom—and anyways, I think they're together or something."

"What grade is she in?" Bea asked with a frown.

"She's a freshman in high school."

A loud crash interrupted their conversation, coming from up the hill at the back porch of the house. She looked and saw the back door had been thrown open, and a blur of yellow was tearing down the stairs. A young boy was in fact the blur of yellow, and growling and yelling like a feral animal. Bea didn't even have time to properly brace before the child—his dark hair flat at the top like it'd been purposely styled that way—spotted her, and let out another juvenile roar as he flew across the grass headed straight for her.

"Drew!" Derek shouted in frustrated warning. "Don't!"

At the last moment Derek stepped in to intercept the wild child. He threw his arms around him and plucked him from his track towards Bea at the last moment to toss him off to the side. The child yelped and rolled across the grass, and Bea was distracted by another boy who chased his brother down the stairs, leaping over them entirely as he yelled, " _Wait up_ , I said!"

"GET HER!" The one in the grass cried to his brother, and Bea was momentarily thrown to see just how identical they were. This one had neater hair and wore sunglasses, and he yelled like a warrior charging into battle as he barreled towards Bea with his little arms waving.

Just as he had before, Derek picked the child up and threw him over to his brother, and Bea was appalled at how rough he was being with a couple of kids. "Derek!" She yelled, smacking him in the arm because she couldn't help but imagine how angry she'd be if he'd treated _her_ brother like that. "What's the matter with you!?"

Shock flashed across his face and he threw his hand in their direction. "They were going to tackle you to the ground!"

"I _have_ a little brother!" Bea reminded him, gesturing wildly to the boys who were already tangled in their own little game of roughhousing. "It wouldn't be the first time I was knocked to the ground or hit. I can handle them! That's what big sisters do!"

Derek looked at her like she was crazy. "No it's not! Not with them! You have to be rough with them, it's the only thing they understand."

The one who'd come running at her first, with the flat hair and yellow shirt, turned his attention back onto Bea. "What are you guys doing?" He asked. He detangled his limbs from his brother and started towards the rocket, his eyes alight with interest. "Oooohhh! Cool!"

Derek started towards him and Bea put her hand up. "Wait!" Bea urgently called. Surprised, the twins stopped to look at her. "Do you know what that is?"

They shook their heads. The one in red said, "Is it a space ship?"

"That is a _rocket_. Model 001225, complete with laser cut wooden fins."

The boys let out identical sounds of interest and Bea gestured for them to come closer. "Where'd you get it?" They wanted to know.

"From school," Bea simply stated.

"Our teacher helped us pick it out and then he ordered it for us." Derek's chest puffed out and he swaggered a little as he went around the side of the launch pad to look at how their hard work had paid off. "We've spent the last couple of months getting it ready to launch."

She explained to them how the mechanics would work, and they listened in rapt attention and frequently asked questions.

"How high will it go?" The one in red asked.

"Up to a thousand feet," Derek revealed with a broad grin on his face. He looked at Bea and seemed to bask in his siblings' amazement. Something told Bea that Derek didn't _mind_ being the center of attention in this family. But then, she added, Derek didn't really seem to mind being the center of attention in general.

"Whoa! Will it explode?" The one in yellow asked.

"A parachute will come out and we'll be able to retrieve it. We're calling it the Alpha."

"The _Alpha?_ " Snorted the one wearing sunglasses. He looked mischievously at his older brother. "Was that your idea?"

"It was _both_ of our ideas." Derek narrowed his eyes at his little brother who snickered and nudged his twin.

"I bet," They chorused enthusiastically, still snickering. Bea felt like there was a conversation within a conversation happening and she chalked it up to some reference to a family joke.

The one in red with sunglasses looked to Bea. "This is something like Tony Stark would do! Can we help? Please? _Please!?"_ He begged, and his light brown eyes wide and hopeful behind the dark shades he wore. His brother eagerly matched his fervor.

"No," said Derek at the same moment Bea agreed. He whipped around to gape at her. "No way!"

"Why not?" Bea shrugged. She looked at the twins' desperate expressions and dragged Derek away like a lawyer would to speak privately with her client. She leaned in to whisper to Derek. "If we let them help they won't have time to _ruin_ anything. We'll supervise the whole thing and they'll be happy to be involved," she reasoned.

Derek sighed loudly and pinched his nose. He turned to look at his brothers. "You guys _better_ do what she says—"

They jumped up and whooped and the twins flanked Bea's side. Derek stared almost in horror before he shook himself off and went to prepare to record the results. While he did that, Bea had the boys play a game of rock-paper-scissors to decide who would get to press the launch button and who would get to go retrieve the rocket. They kept calling best two-out-of-three because the losing twin was always outraged, and Bea suspected they didn't know what best two-out-of-three meant.

Derek sighed and rolled his eyes to Bea. She smirked and started the countdown. The one in yellow—who had recently instructed her to call him Logan despite the fact that she's pretty sure he's named Drew (she would soon learn he was a massive fan of The Wolverine, which explained a lot)—held up the starter to press the launch button.

The twins hollered and yelled in excitement as the rocket zipped off the launch pad and into the sky. They had decent visibility cloud-wise, but it was somewhat difficult for Bea to make out what direction it began its descent because the sun had long since finished setting and night was falling.

Derek and Drew both called out that it was headed for a small pond that lay not far inside their woods, and as soon as he was given a destination, the one with sunglasses took off like he was being chased.

Bea shook her head at the sheer amount of energy that boys their age had. She and Derek huddled together to discuss the results while Drew went to inspect the launch pad.

"Boys!" Talia yelled from the porch. "Drew! What are you doing?"

He waved his arm at her. "Mom, it was so cool! Did you see the rocket? I sent it one _thousand_ feet into the air! Did you see?!"

Talia shrugged irritably. "What about the bathrooms?"

Drew's entire form seemed to slump. He groaned loudly. "Mom!" He whined. "They're good enough!"

"You left a mess! They're worse than when I sent you two in!"

"They are not!" Drew protested, his hands on his hips. "I scrubbed the toilet bowl for, like, ten minutes! Do you know how long that was? It's really clean!" He paused and then went on to add, "I'll prove it! That toilet is so clean, I'll drink out of it!"

"You will do no such thing!" Talia's voice reverberated over the backyard and Bea's eyebrows were high. She was yet again impressed at how little their mother's authority seemed to faze any of the Hale siblings, because they just seemed to sigh and wait for what she had to say next. "Are you bothering them?" Talia accused, pointing at Derek and Bea.

"Yes!" Derek answered, earning himself a growl from Drew that would've made the Wolverine proud. "Hey," Derek warned, and Drew glanced at Bea until Talia distracted him by calling out again.

"Get up here! You're supposed to be _grounded_ , not _setting off rockets!_ "

Drew looked down at the ground and kicked at the grass.

"Drew…" Talia lowly called. "Don't make me ask you twice."

She had barely finished the threat before Drew threw his head back and groaned loudly, dragging his feet for every step he took to the porch. It took him three times as long to get back to the steps as it did to come down, and he grumbled the whole way.

"Where's your brother?" Talia wanted to know. She brushed at Drew's flat hair and he ducked out from under her hand with a feral snarl.

"He went to find the rocket," Derek explained.

"Derek! It's dark out." Talia sounded exasperated. "Are you kidding me?"

"He's fine." Derek sounded totally unconcerned.

"He's seven years old!"

"He's _fine!"_ Derek exclaimed. "It's just over by the pond."

Talia sighed loudly. She turned to talk lowly to Drew. Bea looked away from the sight of Drew getting scolded and focused on Derek. "Do they get in trouble a lot?"

Derek barked out a laugh. He grinned at Bea. "What do you think?"

"Do they get _grounded_ a lot?" She rephrased.

He considered it. "Not really. It's kind of pointless, as you can tell. But they crossed the line when they flushed Cora's fish. They claimed it was to set it free, but everyone knows they were just trying to upset her."

They continued to compare stories of different things their respective brothers had done over the years. Derek was in complete shock when Bea told him Stiles once snuck into her dad's cruiser and accidentally experienced a high-speed chase because of it. He was four years old at the time. It was the first and only instance she'd seen her dad _truly_ afraid, and Stiles was restricted from watching TV for a month afterwards. She thought she'd never get him to shut up about the chase.

"They didn't mess things up for you, did they?" Talia asked, having come down to join them after corralling her twins back into the house. Bea watched as Derek recorded the distance their rocket had travelled based off where Tony—the name of the twin in red—claimed to have found it. She was impressed that Derek knew the woods well enough to estimate the distance based off the scarce details provided by the boy.

"No," Derek grudgingly admitted. "They didn't mess anything up. Actually, Bea was able to get them to pretty much behave."

"Really?" Talia raised her eyebrows and Bea couldn't help but feel that she'd just won some points with the older woman. She stood a little straighter. "I think you and I will need to compare notes. I do well to keep them on the property most nights," she admitted with a wry grin.

Bea shrugged. "I have a little brother."

"Derek has _two_ , and he can't manage to control them." Talia ignored the scowl her eldest son threw her way.

"Sometimes it's less about controlling them and more about… distracting them." Bea had long since come to the conclusion that respect and delegation went a long ways to cooperation. It was a rule she lived by in the Stilinski house and a precedent that clearly served her well.

Talia and Derek exchanged a thoughtful look and Talia gestured to the rocket. "How did the experiment go, otherwise?"

"I think we have everything we need to put the board together," Derek explained. He looked to Bea. "We can do that at school later this week, though."

Talia nodded in approval and looked up at the night sky. "It's still pretty early. Do you think you have time to stick around for a little bit, Bea? I could show you the telescope."

Bea perked up. She looked hesitantly at Derek, unsure of how he felt about it, but he seemed open to the idea because he simply looked curiously at Bea to see what she would say. "Maybe… I have to be home by ten."

"Well that gives us plenty of time," Talia said, gesturing towards the front of the house. "Let's go."

"Last one there has to type up the report!" Derek yelled, having already taken off across the grass. Bea shouted in surprise and quickly darted after him. She wasn't even close to being as fast as he was. In fact, she wasn't certain that she'd ever seen _anyone_ move like Derek.

He seemed to defy the laws of physics themselves with the way he raced up the hill, and by the time Bea was around the side of the house Derek was already mocking her from the porch.

"Derek," Talia said over his shoulder. Derek made a decidedly shrill noise of fright and whipped around so fast that he lost his balance and fell into the railing.

Bea could scarcely catch her breath—partly from sprinting but mostly from amusement—and wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes as she let out a delighted sigh. "Woo!" She said. "Talia! You're my hero!"

"Shut up," Derek snapped, brooding with his arms crossed. "She cheated."

Talia scruffed him on the top of the head, and Derek ducked away with a growl much as Drew had done. "Just trying to keep you humble, son," she smirked, and winked at Bea. "Ready to give the telescope a go?"

Derek helped Talia carry the large telescope down off the porch and into the grass of their front yard. She peered into it and moved it around until she found what she was looking for. "Aha!" She declared, beckoning Bea with her fingers. "Come, look."

Bea stepped up beside Derek and looked up at the kind face of his mother before she leaned in to peer through the eyepiece. "That's Orion," Bea announced. "There's his belt."

"Let me see." Derek nudged Bea aside and she looked up at the night sky to gaze at the constellation with her naked eye.

"I've never been able to actually see the color of the stars before," she admitted. "That's an amazing telescope. You could actually _see_ the red of the red supergiant, Betelgeuse."

"The two brightest stars in the constellation: the Alpha Orionis and the Beta Orionis. Do you know the story?"

"He was a hunter," Bea nodded.

"The greatest hunter of all," Talia started, as though preparing to launch into a long story. "Or so the myth goes..."

They shared their knowledge of the constellations, and Bea was impressed at how much detail Talia knew. Especially about the constellation Lupus, which before that night Bea wasn't even aware existed. After pointing the cluster of stars out, Talia explained that the constellation depicted a wolf being sacrificed and that it was said to represent a deal that was made between Zeus and a werewolf named Lycaus.

Talia was in the middle of explaining the deal and how the man had come to be turned into a wolf by Zeus in the first place, when a tall young man who emerged from the house to grab Talia's attention interrupted them.

"Peter?" Talia frowned in concern. "Is everything okay?"

"There's someone on the phone for you," Peter said, his eyes focusing on Bea. She didn't like the way he studied her so intensely, almost as though he was trying to figure out where she came from and why Talia and Derek were talking to her. Then he looked away and she couldn't help but feel like she'd been written off as inconsequential. Bea's back stiffened.

"I'll try not to take long," Talia told them, touching Derek's back as she crossed the yard to meet Peter. "Is it…?"

"He has news," Peter murmured. "They were able to track them all the way to a city in Louisiana."

"Louisiana?" Talia frowned. "What would they want in Louisiana?"

"I would say the French had more of an impact than just Mardis Gras in that part of the country, wouldn't you?" Peter asked with an eyebrow cocked.

Talia tensed as she realized what he was getting at. She looked back at Peter. "No. No way. He can't be that _stupid_."

"Desperation is clouding their judgment." Peter shook his head. Then, he turned his cheek ever so slightly towards them and Bea froze as he watched her from the corner of his eye. He nudged Talia towards the door, farther out of ear shot. "But that makes them vulnerable. Kali wants to strike now, while they're exposed. Maybe we should listen to her."

"I'm not so sure. Let me talk to him first; if they're going to be reckless then perhaps the smartest—"

Peter followed Talia into the house and the door slammed shut, preventing Bea from catching anything else. Her curiosity reached record heights. She wondered what sort of business Derek's family was involved in, and she wondered who that guy was. She expressed as much to Derek.

He withdrew from the telescope and considered his words carefully. "Oh, him? He's my Uncle Peter. He and my mom work together in the family business. And before you ask, _no_. I don't know what they were talking about. Apparently I'm too young to be concerned with the details." His tone had turned sour at that last part until he remembered who was standing next to him. Derek glanced at Bea and then shook his head as if to clear it. "But never mind that. It doesn't matter." He grabbed the telescope again to scan the sky.

Where usually she would drop the topic as soon as she realized it was making him uncomfortable, Bea couldn't help but have an uneasy feeling about the matter. Especially after what she overheard Peter say to Talia. The whole thing just didn't sit right with her, but it was her curiosity that really drove her to push him. "Sometimes my dad comes home from work and makes us lock all the doors. When that happens I know two things: first, we won't be allowed to go anywhere that night. And second: something happened at work and he's home with us to make sure nothing happens to us."

"Like what?" Derek frowned.

Bea smiled thinly at Derek. "He never says. He doesn't want to scare us."

"But..." Derek looked away thoughtfully. Finally, he seemed to get it. He looked back at her in disapproval. "It's not the same," He frowned.

Bea raised an eyebrow. "You said your mom won't give you the details because you're too young." And Bea knew enough to know _that_ means it's dangerous.

Derek shook his head firmly. "No. No they're not the same. Trust me."

Bea considered it for a long time. She thought about it and she was quiet for so long that Derek took it as her dropping the subject, and so he returned to the telescope. She ran through the small piece of conversation she heard from Talia and Peter and her head again. "Maybe you're right," She quietly acknowledged. "My dad always told me to call the police if there was someone who needed to be apprehended."

Derek went very still. He slowly moved away from the telescope to turn on her, and she could see his mind racing as he picked through her meaning. "What do you mean?" He was getting angry, she could tell by the way he raised his voice. "Who do you think needs to be arrested?"

"You don't see anything wrong with the fact that you even have to ask me that question in the first place?" Bea frowned.

"Oh, I see something wrong with it," Derek agreed with a firm nod. "I just think maybe you and I are looking at things a little differently. We're seeing two different problems."

Her face cleared. "I see." He was already brainwashed by them, then. She shouldn't be surprised, not really, and she knew that. But she couldn't help but feel a little disappointed. She was starting to _like_ Derek. Bea looked back at the house and wondered what sort of conversations were happening inside, and whether they were as loaded as the one she found herself in.

"I really hope you don't feel the need to tell your dad about all this." Dropping all pretense, Derek advanced a step on Bea and she lifted her chin at him. "You have no idea what's actually going on here."

Her eyes narrowed.

"Because," He added. "If you tell your dad... I'll have to tell my mom." He shook his head. "Things won't turn out like you think."

That did it. Bea turned around to walk away from him, from the house, from all of it, but was brought up short by Derek's firm hand closing over her shoulder to drag her to a stop. She wrenched out of his grasp and kept much needed distance between them. Derek put his hands up as if to show he meant no harm, and Bea could have scoffed at that if she wasn't so angry.

"It doesn't have to be this way." Derek almost seemed to be pleading with her now. His gaze was borderline heartfelt and that threw Bea off her game, because she wasn't expecting it and she didn't trust it. "We could just drop it. Right here, right now."

" _Drop_ it?" Bea practically hissed, reeling away from him. "Look, the truth is, I don't know _what_ your family is involved in! But I do know it's something you don't want my dad finding out about. I wonder why that could be?"

It finally clicked for him, then. "You think she's a criminal," He realized, his face going blank with clarity before almost seemed to sneer at the ridiculousness of it. "Like a drug lord or something? Bea! No!"

She was not convinced. "Oh, what a relief," said Bea rather drily. "I guess I can tell my dad about this after all, and we can all share a laugh at the absurdity—"

" _No!_ " He looked somewhat panicked now. "You're not listening!"

"I am!" She pointed in accusation at the house. "I heard every word your _Uncle Peter_ used, and I'm _not_ an idiot!"

"No—"

" _Kali wants to strike now, while they're exposed_ ," Bea recited with a note of disgust in her voice. " _Maybe we should listen_ —"

"There's so much _more_ to it than that!" Derek practically bellowed, his eyes flashing a bright golden yellow. "Would you just stop?"

She had in fact stopped, though not for the reasons he thought. She was stunned and gawking at him.

"Shut up for two seconds! If you could just _trust_..." He came up short at the expression on her face. She couldn't tear her eyes away from his glowing ones, her mind an uproar of confusion and more confusion piled on top of disorientation. This night had just taken a sharp left turn from unstable to insane.

"Derek!" Talia startled them both and when Derek whipped around, Talia's eyes locked with his and her face slowly changed to that of disbelief. Over her shoulder, Peter's crossed arms dropped to his side and he looked from his nephew to focus on Bea with such an intense accusation that it pulled her out of her shock and made her ball her fists. "Derek… what have you done?"

Apparently Derek knew what she meant, because he gasped and covered his eyes in a motion that was much more like a flinch than anything else. "I—I'm sorry—I didn't mean to!"

Bea's head swirled as she disengaged from the staring contest she'd somehow entered with Peter. Even though she didn't understand a thing that was happening, it somehow felt wrong to watch Derek scoot away from her like a dog with its tail between its legs. She reached up and her hand barely raised a couple of inches before he jumped back. "I don't understand," she murmured, looking between him and his mother who was fast approaching. "What's wrong with him?"

"Nothing!" Peter asserted from the porch. Bea scowled, having long since decided she didn't care for his rudeness. He jumped into the grass to join them, and to her unpleasant surprise, Derek retreated to Peter's side. "Nothing's _wrong_ with him. He's still learning to control it, that's all."

"Control _what?"_ Bea demanded, looking between all of them.

Talia turned on her son. "Derek, how _could_ you?"

"I didn't do it on purpose!" Derek defended. "I just got mad! She thought you were a drug lord!"

"Ha! She did not," Peter loudly scoffed, his nose pinched in what could only be described as pure derision. "What an idiot."

At that, Bea felt her temper spike. She clenched her fists and glared hard at the side of Peter's laughing face. "I know!" Derek exclaimed. Bea's jaw dropped.

"Enough!" Talia's voice was a presence unto itself. Everything stopped. Peter quieted and watched as Derek squirmed in the tense silence. "When you get angry, you control it. You don't shift! You never shift, not in front of them! Do you understand? You could've hurt her!" Talia wasn't yelling, but she might as well have been. She sounded more disappointed than anything else, and Bea's head spun from shock and insult at the whole situation. Not to mention the fact that she was missing out on some clearly important details.

"I'm sorry!" Derek sounded so filled with guilt—but not to Talia; he was apologizing to Bea. "I thought… I thought I could hide it."

Bea slowly shook her head. Her eyes went from the hunched form of Derek, to Peter who stood protectively over him, to Talia who lifted her hand to offer it to Bea. She stared at the outstretched hand and slowly lifted her gaze to meet Talia's. "Come," the woman said. "Let's go to the porch, and I'll explain. Peter?"

Peter put his arm around Derek's shoulders. "I've got him." His eyes briefly flickered to Bea. "But Talia, are you… _sure_ that this is the best decision? You know there's another option."

Talia stepped almost protectively in between Bea and Peter, lifting her head high. "I won't ask you again, Peter. Take him inside."

Peter's face went blank and after a long moment his voice was oddly calm when he spoke again. "Derek?"

"Let's just go," Derek muttered. His head was practically hung in shame as Peter took him by the shoulder, looking back at them only once as he led Derek back to the house. Bea turned to look at Talia, who offered her a small, knowing grin that wasn't quite a grin. If Bea had to describe it, she might say Talia almost looked… _sad_. But about what, Bea couldn't say.

* * *

"So… not everyone in your family has… is… like you?" Bea asked. It had taken some time for Talia to explain everything, and Bea's head still spun with the impossibility of it all.

"Yes, not all of us are werewolves. You met Anthony," Talia nodded. "Anthony and Andrew are twins, but only Andrew inherited the wolf gene."

"But how is that possible?" Bea frowned. "They're identical twins, right? That means they have identical genes."

"Ah," Talia leaned back in her chair to offer Bea a rewarding smile. "That _is_ the question. It's the question I've wrestled with since they were old enough for their eyes to shift for the first time. It's normal for twins in werewolf families to develop at different stages of course, just as in any family. Drew was the first to crawl. Tony was the first to sit.

"At around the age of two or three, when they've picked up the ability to speak and their brains have developed enough to process the world around them, all babies become more adept at expressing their emotions. That's around the earliest stage that a child who inherited the werewolf gene will have their eyes shift. It's why we keep ourselves so far removed from the general public. It's why we have such a family-oriented, private culture. Born werewolves spend their whole lives learning to control the shift. Sometimes, they never do.

"Derek, for example, basically spent the first six years of his life with glowing golden eyes. I never thought he'd get his temper under control. I kept him out of kindergarten. I had to hire a private tutor for him. He worked hard at it, though, because he wanted to be in school with his sisters. He hated having to stay behind every day and watch Laura leave on the school bus. And even more than that, he _hated_ the idea that Cora might get to go to public school before he did, because she was able to control her eyes so quickly. It made him feel incapable, I think. But he got there, and he's been in public school ever since.

"My point is, it's always very apparent when a child has the werewolf gene because it can be so challenging to repress it. It's like training yourself to _not_ breathe through your nose. Something that's reflex is almost impossible to control, but we can do it, after years of practice. So when Drew's eyes shifted and weeks passed, then months, and then years, and Tony's eyes never changed… I knew. Tony was human. I don't understand it and I still can't explain it, but I accepted it. Admire it, even. He's my first and only human child, and I love him all the same."

Bea frowned. "...There's one thing that I have to ask. You said werewolves have more energy and they heal quickly, right? But it didn't seem like Tony had any issues keeping up with Drew tonight. He was actually the one to go retrieve the rocket."

Talia chuckled and nodded. "That was probably strategic on their part. Had Drew gone, he undoubtedly would have returned with the rocket in a matter of moments, which would in turn raise your suspicion. My boys are reckless but they aren't stupid." She leaned forward at Bea's enlightened expression. "They were trying to hide the truth."

The truth. The truth that they're identical, but not the same at all. If Drew had come back with the rocket in under a minute, she might have assumed the pond was closer than she originally imagined. At least until she saw Derek's estimations about the distance to the landing site. After seeing the numbers, Bea would connect the dots and find fault with how quickly Drew had gotten out to the pond, managed to find the rocket in the dark and then returned—all in under a minute. Impossible, by human standards. But now everything she thought she knew was different.

She then remembered their numerous games of rock-paper-scissors and she realized Talia was right. They were manipulating the game to ensure that Tony would be the one to go. But why didn't they just send Drew anyway? Couldn't he have pretended to take longer? Or were they worried that Drew still wouldn't be able to take a believable amount of time? Maybe they were being overly cautious. Maybe Drew didn't _like_ having to pretend. Or maybe Tony felt like he needed to be able to keep up, so he insisted to take every opportunity to prove that he can.

From there her mind spun into other questions, ones more closely related to the twins' relationship and how the werewolf gene effects it in general. There have been studies done on twins and their connection for centuries. How would a werewolf gene change that? Especially when only one twin has the gene? Had anyone thought to experiment with the differences? Her mind, once again, spun with the endless possibilities.

Talia drew Bea from her rapidly changing thoughts by interrupting them. "Most days, Tony can hold his own. Wherever he can't, Drew makes up the difference. It's actually very inspiring to watch how they take care of each other. But when Tony gets sick, it's heartbreaking to see how Drew worries about him. Every time Tony gets a cold I have to convince Drew that he's not about to die."

It might've been comical if it wasn't so sad. "Seriously?"

Talia sighed heavily. "I haven't thought about the twins in detail like this for a while. Not from an objective standpoint, anyway. Describing it all to you has given me a lot to think about."

"Me too," Bea said dryly.

Talia smirked. She looked up at the sky. "Well, it's almost ten o'clock now. I don't want you to be late getting home. Will you come back to visit us?"

"Honestly?" Bea stood with Talia and looked around their property again. "Put yourself in my shoes. Would you come back?"

"I don't know that I'd be able to stay away," Talia admitted, her hands on her hips.

Bea nodded. "Exactly."

"I just hope you realize how important it is to keep this to yourself." Talia put her hands on her hips and Bea tried to sift through all the emotions on Talia's face, but she couldn't read the woman well enough to see past the resignation. "There are those of us who would say I'm being too trusting, letting you go back to your family with all that you know. But… Derek trusted you to come here. So I'll trust him. Please, don't prove him wrong."

Bea shook her head. She didn't want them to worry that she was going to run home and spill all she'd seen to her dad. "I get it now. I didn't, before, with all the secrets. But now I get it. You're…" she thought of some of the stories her dad told about the people he'd met at his job over the years. And she also thought of her own secrets, and how closely she guarded her mother's ever changing behavior. "You're protecting yourselves. That's something I can get behind."

Talia watched Bea and finally smiled. "You know, there are a lot of humans who would say _you're_ being too trusting. I don't want you to get the wrong impression; werewolves can be dangerous. It's like I always tell my kids: we're predators, but we don't have to be killers."

"Thank you." Bea lifted her chin when Talia raised her eyebrows in confusion.

"Oh? For what?"

"I'm not an idiot." She gestured to the door of the house. "I noticed what Peter said earlier, when he was about to take Derek inside. He said there was another option. He said you didn't have to do this. I don't know what he meant, but… I get the feeling it wasn't learning about werewolf genes."

Talia sighed heavily. "Peter…" She trailed off and shook her head. "For the record, he didn't mean he thought we should kill you. Even _he_ wouldn't go that far. But Peter is... very complicated. To strip his motives down to their bare bones, what he really wants is to keep the pack alive. He just can't see the woods for the trees. You're not our enemy, but he's not used to that."

Bea nodded, though she didn't really understand. "Well, still. Thank you for not… you know. Whatever he was suggesting."

Talia scoffed. "You're quite welcome."

* * *

 **January 2012**

 **Beacon Hills, CA**

 **Bea's Room**

Bea sat at her desk the night after she saw Derek, with a drink in her hand and what few notes she'd managed to hold on to during her bumbling escape she made scattered on the desktop. Upon realizing she'd lost a good chunk of the research she'd already conducted, Bea resolved to make copies of everything. She'd done so immediately at the library and now she had a meager, thin binder lying off to the side that she couldn't look at without feeling sick with herself. She _really_ needed to learn to get a grip. She wasn't usually such a ninny, truly, it's just that life had been throwing her for a bit of a loop lately.

But wasn't that the ultimate test? Life will always come up with unpredictable, inopportune and even disadvantageous _loops_ at any given moment. It's how you deal with them that makes you who you are. Bea knew this, rationally at least. She never thought she'd allow herself to become so... _flappable_. In short, she was ashamed and embarrassed about how she had handled this morning's events, and all of this added together made her _angry_. It wasn't the first time she wished desperately for a time machine, and she knew it wouldn't be the last. But as with every instance she was struck with the feeling, something inside her pled: _but this time it's **really** important!_

 _The solution is simple, of course. Next time, don't be such a coward._

Bea grit her teeth and forced herself to focus on the conversation at hand. Cooper was on speakerphone and they'd already been talking about the case for ninety minutes straight. Well, _Cooper_ had been talking. Bea did well to get a word in edgewise with the guy, a trait that had irritated her ever since her first job interview with him.

"It doesn't make sense."

Bea thought to agree, to say that she needed to talk to more people, but she knew from experience that her participation wasn't strictly required when he was like this. So she bit her tongue and pushed back thoughts of her lost notes and damaged pride in favor of focusing on what came next in the investigation.

"What about family members?" He continued. In the background she heard an incredibly loud pop and flinched, nearly dropping her phone. There was a quieter sound of... call her crazy, but it _sounded_ like a gun being racked. "Not to beat a dead horse, but I think if you could talk to them you would get the best insight—"

"What the _hell_ was that noise?" Bea interrupted for the first time since she started working for him. "It sounded like a shotgun!"

"Hey!" Cooper sounded impressed. "That's a pretty good ear you've got. It's a Winchester. I'm at a gun range... kind of."

" _Why?_ Ugh, my ear is ringing," She muttered, wiggling her jaw. She plugged the ear in question so she didn't catch Cooper's response at first. "Sorry, what was that?"

"Turkey season starts in March."

"And you're practicing with a shotgun?" Bea scoffed. "Why don't you just throw a stick of dynamite at it and call it a day?"

Cooper snorted in turn. "Because that would be impractical, Stilinski."

She threw a hand up even though he couldn't see her. "Exactly! So is a shotgun."

"Bahh," He said, the verbal equivalent of waving someone off. "Shotguns are fun."

"And dynamite isn't?" She shouldn't have said it. She realized it at the intrigued noise that came from Cooper then, like she'd pointed out something particularly interesting that he hadn't considered. "Oh, my god." Bea sighed and closed her eyes.

 _Chck-chck._

She yanked the phone away from her ear, but the _POP!_ was still audible even as she held it at arm's length. She growled and reminded herself why it wasn't a good idea to cuss Cooper out once and for all.

 _1\. He could fire her._

 _2\. She actually likes her job, despite the fact that her boss is a freaking psychopath._

 _3\. He has a shotgun._

She dropped her head to her desk in resignation. There was a faint, tinny voice from her phone, and she reached over to blindly tap the speaker on. It only took a few tries to work and she didn't lift her head up as he continued to speak.

"—make a few calls myself if you'd like, you know, test the waters out. Break the ice."

Her head snapped up and she stared at the phone in dawning horror.

"I know how you are about talking to traumatized family so maybe it would be better if I did it myself. I'm sure I could find their numbers, it would be pretty easy."

"Wait! What? No!" She dragged the phone over. "Don't do that! It's too soon. You know that, Cooper."

Cooper's tone shifted slightly, becoming a little less patient than it had been for the last hour, which wasn't saying much, really. "Would you let me finish? I've been doing this a lot longer than you have, Stilinski, and I'm telling you it's _not_ too soon! Not for a case like this. Even the community is openly demanding answers! They're not afraid of asking questions, so what makes you think they'll be offended if you approach with a few of your own?"

Bea sighed loudly and drained her glass of the remaining whiskey as Cooper continued his rant.

"Maybe you're right about one thing. I shouldn't try to do your job for you," He conceded with a sigh, echoing her earlier sentiment. "Look, I'm not suggesting you walk in there with a list of accusations. Ask them about their kids. You'd be surprised how much people are willing to share, even after they've been through something as horrible as their kid committing suicide. And what about the siblings? Talk to them. I'm sure the victims had brothers and sisters of all ages. Some of them might even have gone to school with each other. Now that I'm thinking about it, they're in the best position to give you usable information because they'd have seen who their sibling was hanging around all the time. Your biggest question is whether or not these kids knew each other, right?"

There was a pause and Bea realized Cooper was giving her the opportunity to participate in his speech. She sat up. "Yes. I—"

"Then those are the kind of people you need to be talking to. What about that one kid you mentioned before, the boyfriend. What was his name? Collin? Connor? Calvin?"

"Calvin," Bea confirmed.

"See? Perfect! Talk to him."

She shook her head and tapped her finger against the desk impatiently. "He didn't seem to want to talk to me at all. I think he was offended when Mason brought him to talk to me—"

"Mason, then!" Cooper excitedly exclaimed. "There's your source. That kid organized the vigil, right? So he's gotta be pretty involved in the school. I bet everyone knows him. Kids would feel _safe_ talking to him."

He was right, of course. And hadn't Mason already extended his hand in help? He made it quite clear that he was interested in continuing his involvement in the piece. Bea tapped her fingers on the desk. "I would just have to make sure he knew how to be discreet," She thought aloud. The boy was like a golden retriever. Intelligent, affable and eager to please, but subtle?...

"I'm sure _you_ could handle teaching someone discretion."

Bea smirked and tried not to preen at the compliment. "If this is seriously going to be the angle I take, it would be better to have multiple sources. Students will notice if Mason alone is going around offering himself as a confidant to all the victim's friends and family."

"Who else would you suggest?" He paused. "What about your brother?"

" _Absolutely_ not—"

"Okay—" Cooper cut himself off and Bea heard the familiar _chk-chck_ again. _POP!_ She faintly heard something shatter and Cooper cheered. Chk-chk. _POP!_ After a contented sigh, he spoke again. " _God_ , that's satisfying. Where was I? Oh, right. You can't keep throwing up these excuses, Stilinski. Your job is to investigate. If you don't like my ideas, fine. But figure out a way to get the answers, because I'm gonna be honest, you're not making very good progress. I'm half tempted to send someone out there with you tonight."

Bea sat up straight and only just managed to restrain herself from barking out a protest. She cleared her throat and shuffled some papers around. "Cooper, please. You know how long it can take to set up a proper investigation. I need time and resources, and I need to do all of it _without_ stepping on anyone's toes. Just..." _Relax!_ "Trust me." She grit her teeth to stop herself from adding more.

He made a noise of skeptic amusement. "Right. Well then I'll expect you to have a reliable source by Monday night." Two days. He was giving her two days. By Cooper's standards, that was generous.

Bea grit her teeth. "Great."

"Great."

With that, Cooper said his goodbye and hung up. Bea leaned back as far as she could in her desk chair and stretched out her stiff back. Talking to him in the early stages of a case he was excited about never failed to exhaust her.

Right now, Bea's bedroom door was open. That might be the only reason she was able to hear the knock at the front door, short and unassuming. So much so that she thought she might have imagined it. The hallway was dark as she peered into it and tried to decide whether she had really heard a knock.

There was no movement from her brother's room or anywhere else in the house because she was home alone. It was pretty late already, but with the state she'd left the station in, there was a chance her dad wouldn't even come home tonight at all.

There came another knock, this time more persistent and a little louder. Bea got up and went to see who it was, passing through the hallway to the living room. She peered out the window in the front door and gasped. She jumped away and swallowed her galloping heart from where it'd leapt into her throat.

With her embarrassing actions earlier that morning still fresh in her mind, Bea put on what she intended to be a brave voice and squeaked, "What are you doing here?" _Fail_. She closed her eyes and shook her head at herself.

There was shuffling on the porch for a moment. Then, a familiar folder slapped against the window. "What is this?" Derek asked, his voice much deeper and more demanding than she remembered it being.

She squinted at the folder. It was green. _That_ was the folder she kept her notes about the high school in, and the notes that happened to include a rather large section about the Argents. A huge wave of relief crashed over her once she realized those were her _notes_ and for a blissful moment she thought she could throw open the door and kiss his stupid face—but it was quickly overshadowed by apprehension. Bea remembered herself and who was standing outside and she put her shoulders back and held her head high in the face of her indignity. _Brace for impact._

She opened the door for Derek. The same frantic shock she'd felt the first time she saw him in the station rocked her again, and her hands trembled slightly from the burst of adrenaline through her system. "Derek. It's been..."

She let the sentence trail off because she didn't even know where to begin. There was a time not so long ago when she knew everything about Derek, but now... She barely recognized him, and she didn't know _how_ to feel about it. She wondered if he was thinking the same thing because he could scarcely look at her.

Derek waved the folder, his eyes dropping away from her face. "You dropped these when you were… running away."

She felt a blush creeping up at the unwelcome reminder of her overreaction. Bea chose not to rise to the bait and cleared her throat, lifting a hand to gesture in her house. "You can come in if you want."

Derek hesitated only a moment before he accepted her invitation. She ignored his scrutiny and closed the door behind him. The house was blaringly quiet and Bea could hear her own pulse banging against the vein in her neck. She knew Derek could hear it just as well.

She cleared her throat again and scowled at the way he was obviously giving her space by not looking at her, choosing instead to look around the house. His gaze stuck to the Christmas tree, but Bea ignored that and crossed her arms.

Unsure of where to start, she went for the question that nagged her all day. "How long have you been back?"

Derek raised his eyebrow and finally turned his gaze onto her. She did her best not to squirm, but he looked away soon after. "Almost a year."

A _year?_ He'd been back in town for a _year?_

" _Why?"_ She couldn't keep the confused frown off her face.

Dark emotions passed across Derek's face—something like pain and regret—and Bea's eyes widened at the untold story she found there. The silence stretched on too long and Bea had to physically ground herself to keep from going to comfort him, as she would have done years ago without hesitation. _This is_ _not the Derek I knew. This is not the Derek I knew. This is not the_... he looked so... _defeated_.

Just as she was about to cave and go to him, Derek avoided responding by instead throwing the question back at her. "What are _you_ doing here, Bea?"

She flinched. "I…" She looked down. "You read the notes, I'm guessing?"

Derek held the folder tightly but didn't answer. His stare was enough to confirm her suspicions. "You're a reporter."

She waited, but he didn't add anything to that. "Is that a question?"

Derek's nose flared and he tapped a finger against the folder. "You're making it into a story?" He asked, waving the folder at her. " _This?"_

She could read between the lines; felt that tacit accusation laced in his words. In that moment, he reminded her of Peter. Bea's back went stiff. "I'm not 'making _'_ anything. The story is already here, it's already happening. My job is to find out the details and _report_ it."

He snorted. "And you're focusing on the Argent family?"

"You think _that's_ the only folder I have?" Bea scoffed, snatching the green folder in question from his grasp. She looked away and paced the floor in the silence that Derek let grow between them in response to her question, choosing instead to watch as she started to pace. It was a habit she knew he was familiar with and she could tell by the look on his face it felt surreal for him to watch her do it again after all this time. "Can we not just have a full conversation?" She finally asked, allowing the weariness she felt to seep into her voice. "Why are we doing this?"

Derek's shoulders slumped and he sighed. He looked very, very tired in that moment. "You're right," he admitted. "Can we sit down?"

Bea was reassured at the request. She held her arm out to allow him to go first and followed Derek to the couch. Bea took the chair and watched Derek's every move as he settled into the cushion. He cast his gaze around the living room briefly before focusing back on her.

Her mind flipped through their conversation they'd had in an effort to figure out where to begin, when it caught on something he said just moments ago.

 _And you're focusing on the Argent family?_

Bea gasped loudly and jumped out of her chair, shouting in realization. Derek reared back to look at her oddly and she let her hands fly to her cheeks. "Derek!" She exclaimed, her voice shrill. "Holy shit!"

"What?" He looked around to see if he missed something. "What?!"

"The Argents! Was Allison... she _was_... wasn't she?" Bea looked at Derek, her voice shrinking into a more subdued tone that disguised the turmoil raging just below the surface.

Derek looked down, his jaw tight. "Do you really need me to answer that for you?"

Bea slowly sat back in the chair as her mind raced to make connections and fill in blanks. "So when she died…" Bea shook her head. It wasn't a mugging. Of _course_ it wasn't, but... " _Scott!_ Did he… I mean, does he know?" This was directed at Derek.

Derek looked reluctant at that point. He turned his face away and shifted, and Bea couldn't help but notice that not only did he look uncomfortable on the couch but he looked too _big_ on the couch. Out of place. It almost hurt. "These are questions you should really be asking him—"

"What about the school?" Bea fired at him.

Derek blinked at the seemingly random jump in topic. "…What?"

"The Argents paid for the new building to be built at the high school. Why?"

Derek's face changed and he met her gaze, and Bea cut him off.

"Don't!" She accused, pointing at him again.

Derek's eyebrows shot up, and years of learning his behaviors allowed his response to come rushing to the surface in her mind before he could even open his mouth: _You don't even know what I was going to say._

"Don't act like you weren't about to lie to me just now." She waved her finger at him. "I know how to tell when someone's lying, thanks to you. Or have you forgotten?"

"You've changed," He finally said, and that was enough to shock Bea into silence. He looked over her and his gaze lingered on her eyes. Bea's mouth slowly closed and she frowned. He was quiet when he spoke again. "If you weren't looking into the Argents because of Allison, why were you looking into them at all?"

"Because…" Bea shook her head, still thrown from his statement about her apparent change. "Because they kept coming up," She admitted. "Again and again in interviews with random people. It's like their name just kept cropping up. The way people talked about them it was like… they deliberately left stuff out. It caught my interest."

"But you never realized _who_ they were?" He sounded more than just skeptical—he sounded like he thought she was lying.

Bea shrugged widely. "I don't know! My life doesn't—" _**revolve** around that anymore! _ Bea took a calming breath. "I just didn't think in those terms, okay? Not until just now."

"Because I brought it up," Derek deduced.

"Because you _showed_ up," Bea corrected. Thoughts of the Argents temporarily falling to the wayside, she said, "Why were you at the station today?"

Derek looked away at the memory. The clock in the room chimed, signaling that a new hour was beginning. Bea ignored it. Derek turned to face her as he answered. "Your dad asked me to come in because he wondered if something more was going on with the suicides."

"Something more? What do you mean, something…" Bea froze and looked directly at Derek's hesitant gaze, suddenly suspicious. "Why would he call _you_ in? It's not like… unless… unless he does, doesn't he? He _knows_ about the supernatural!"

Derek took a breath, a familiar gesture that only sent Bea into a deeper tail spin as moved to stand. "Don't." Derek cut a line through the air with his hand, not quite meeting her gaze.

 _Don't what?_

Oh, don't pace. Bea remained seated but she squeezed restlessly at her knees and her mind skipped over why it was hard for Derek to watch her pace and raced back to her father.

" _How_ —how long has he known? Does he know that I know? He knows about you, he must! Know that I know, I mean." Bea sank back into the chair, feeling dizzy all of the sudden. "Oh, my god…"

"A lot has happened over the past year."

"Obviously!" She snapped and then paused. "What did you tell him?"

"Who?"

"My dad!" Exasperated, she stopped and then looked at Derek who scowled. "When he asked your opinion about the suicides, what did you say?"

"Actually, he was asking me if there was any way werewolves could somehow be responsible for what's happening. He knows a little bit about supernatural creatures gaining power from sacrifices and rituals by now. He must have been getting suspicious of the suicides because he called me in to ask me if I knew of any werewolves that would…" He trailed off, letting the rest speak for itself. Any werewolves that would be willing to sacrifice a bunch of teens and make it look like suicide.

Bea waited for him to actually answer her question. "And? Did you?"

"Is that what this is about?" Derek wanted to know, a frown marring his face. "Do _you_ think the werewolves are responsible?"

"No!" Bea hesitated. "Maybe. I don't know!"

Derek stayed silent as she rubbed her face and he looked away uncomfortably. "Fine. I'll tell you what I told your dad. Nothing about the way these kids are dying looks like a sacrifice. There's no ritual involved, no way for us to draw power from their death. They've all been human so it's not like an Alpha is responsible. They're jumping off the bridge and drowning in the water. And..." It was obvious there was something else he wanted to add, maybe even _should_ have added, but whatever it was, he thought better of it and settled on shaking his head. "It's just not possible. They're not sacrifices."

"So basically you think they're just…. suicides," Bea concluded.

Derek focused on her for a long moment, thoughtful until he reached a conclusion. "You think there's more going on."

Bea shrugged. "My boss thinks it could be a suicide pact, which would definitely explain it."

"I didn't ask what your boss thinks," Derek scowled. "What do _you_ think?"

She looked down and finally admitted what was really bothering her the most about all of it, because she knew Derek would understand. "All of them have been at Riley Bridge," Bea murmured. She didn't need to say more. Derek's face lost some of its irritation and he sat back in the couch to study Bea.

"The way they all tell the same story bothers me too," She continued, unable to sit still under his scrutiny for too long. "The deaths happen the same way, and they happen once a week, but there's no way to predict _when_ in the week it's going to happen or who will do it next. One person I talked to said Andrew…" Bea trailed off, mouth agape, and a twisting ache attacked her heart at at the name. A very different Andrew came to mind now that Derek sat in front of her. She wasn't even thinking when she said it, but now that she had...

She looked at Derek with a pained expression. "I'm sorry," She hoarsely whispered.

Derek couldn't look at her. "Just get to your point," He growled, his voice rough and impatient.

Bea nodded, swallowing past the raw feeling in her throat. "One of the victims was excited about college."

" _Andrew_. You could at least say his name."

Bea let that comment sting for a moment before she pressed on, her voice smaller than she tried for. "Andrew was accepted into an art school, so he was excited about the future and his boyfriend couldn't understand what would make him change his mind. But then I talked to someone else who knew Mariah, and she didn't seem to be as surprised about Mariah's suicide because apparently Mariah was always a pretty depressed kid.

"So on the one hand, we have a victim with his whole life in front of him and a productive future already in his reach. He had a boyfriend. He was presumably happy. And yet, he committed suicide."

Bea, gaining momentum, stood to pace again and her voice lost its meekness.

"Then there's Mariah, who was passionate about competing in gymnastics, but had to deal with a lot of crap in her life. As harsh as it sounds, people who knew her weren't all that surprised by the news of her quote unquote 'choice'. And there's no connection between the two except for the way they died, which absolutely is an _important_ connection."

She turned to look at Derek again, who was sitting back to listen. Bea couldn't quite figure out what he was thinking. He was frowning deeply, his mind visibly working over the information she dumped on him.

"I still need to find out more about the other kids but so far there's very little that connects their lives together except the fact they all jumped from Riley Bridge to commit suicide."

"So... you're interested in Riley Bridge?"

"There's more. Wait here for a minute!"

Derek watched, speechless, as Bea zipped back into her room and retrieve the binder. She returned to the living room and held up a picture up that she'd printed out earlier and then slid it across the coffee table to him. "I need to get back out there so I can confirm it with the newest victim, but up to now, the names of all the victims have been scratched into this _one_ pole." She tapped the photo of the pole and watched Derek as he examined the picture with a troubled expression. "It's a little odd, don't you think?"

Derek put the picture down and ran his finger absently over the scruff on his chin. "What about the newest victim?" He asked. "Is her name on the pole now?"

"I don't know what the newest victim's name _is_ , or if it's even a girl," Bea told him with a frustrated shrug. "No one does; the police aren't saying a peep about it."

"It was Debbie Moore," Derek stated.

Bea narrowed her eyes in suspicion. "How did you find out?"

"I heard them talking about it in the station this morning."

"You—" Bea scoffed and dropped her hands. Angrily, she said, "Well that's convenient!"

Derek looked pretty content with himself and Bea sighed loudly. She rubbed her face.

"So... If her name is on that pole…" Bea shook her head and came up empty. She held her hands out. "I don't know. I just need to find out more." She waved a hand at Derek. "At least I have a name now, though. That's something. I guess." She paused and looked down at him. "Thank you."

For a moment, Bea studied Derek thoughtfully. He met her gaze and his eyebrows dipped down ever so slightly at something he saw. He lifted his face with an expression of dread. "No, don't look at me like that," He groaned, like he already knew he wouldn't like whatever she was thinking.

"Like what?" She shrugged innocently. "How am I looking at you? Don't get so defensive! You don't even know what I was thinking! Or can you read minds now too?"

"I don't have to," Derek disputed, and stood to shake his head at her. "I can already see you're about to ask me to do something I won't want to do!"

"What!?" Bea scoffed. "That's not true!" She tried to rearrange her face into something less obvious.

"Oh, really?" He drily responded, and crossed his arms. "What is it, then?"

Wanting nothing more than to disagree with him, Bea scoffed again and gave a lame shrug. "...I don't know what you're talking about. I don't have a question." It sounded lame even to her own ears. Derek raised his eyebrows, pinched mouth silently mocking her. She could see it in his eyes. She snarled at him. "Fine!"

Bea drew in a deep breath before expelling it sharply as she tried to think of how to ask it without risking him just straight up walking out. She turned to the side a couple of times to nudge the carpet with her foot in procrastination. Finally, she cleared her throat.

"You're a werewolf," She shrugged.

"Is that the question?" He asked, throwing her earlier remark back in her face.

"I'm not finished!" She glared at him and Derek tilted his head in a taunt. She began ticking points off as she listed them: "You've been here for a year. You know what's been going on in town. You know people, like the Argents. You can _hear_ police officers discussing details of the case through walls. You can catch scents; track people or things down, follow trails. You can intimidate people. And if things get hairy, you've always been pretty good at knocking people on their ass."

"A three year old could figure out where you're going with this," Derek told her, which was basically as good as saying _and the answer is no_.

"But that's ten reasons!" She encouraged, nudging his shoulder.

"It was nine."

"Ten! Derek! Don't you see? People are dying!" At his complete exasperation as he sighed and pinched his nose, she lowered her voice. "I know you might not see what I see yet, but just trust me. Just this once, trust me. There is something going _on_ in Beacon Hills!"

Derek glared at her, apparently insulted. "You think I don't trust you?"

She shrugged a shoulder, glancing away. "I don't know," She mumbled insincerely.

Derek didn't respond to that. He studied her for another moment, his face pinched as he considered it. "You're going to do this with or without me, aren't you?"

Bea instantly nodded. "Yes."

Derek glared at her for a long, long time. "I can't," He finally said.

Admittedly, she wasn't expecting that, but what surprised her even more was her deep sting of disappointment. Bea kept the crestfallen expression from crossing her face even as she turned away. "Oh," she managed.

"It's just... It's too much, Bea."

Then came the anger, the irritation at his shortsightedness. "This isn't _about_ that," She growled through her teeth. How could he not see that whatever was happening was _bigger_ than their history? Fuming, she took a breath. "You know what?" Bea stepped around Derek to go open the door. "Don't worry about it, I can handle this on my own."

A myriad of thoughts flickered in Derek's eyes but none of them touched his face as he stayed carefully still and looked at Bea and the open door, her unspoken command ringing loudly through the room. He ignored it. "I get that this hits close to him for you. It's not that I don't believe you, it's just that I don't think you need me to help with this one."

"Oh," She gave him an insincere nod of appreciation. "I'm flattered. Really."

Derek looked disapproving, almost pained as he watched her gesture to the door in dismissal. "Bea..."

"I have to work," She told him, her jaw tight. "I have a deadline."

He stared for another long moment before he finally gave up. His shoulders twitched in a shrug and he moved past her to the porch. "Good luck," He said, turning his gaze back once he was on the stoop.

She studied him with her stony gaze for a long moment, but ultimately saved her breath as she shut the door in his face.


	7. Chapter 7

_(A/N): Realized just as I'm about to post this that I forgot to mention last chapter I have two betas now! HUGE THANK YOU to_ Hurricane.'97 _and_ afluffykiwi _. And also apologize to kiwi because im such an impatient shit and likely will repost her edited content after this because I'm too eager to get you guys the newest chapter ASAP lol XD! But watch for an edited version to follow this update! And Thank you both for all that you do! Your enthusiasm is what fuels my writing 100% of the time!_

* * *

 **March 2001**

 **Beacon Hills, CA**

 **The Stilinski House**

Bea came into the house with a large tupperware container tucked under her arm not long before the sun was due to set. "Mom!" She called. Stiles' current movie obsession played idly on the television for the empty living room, the volume cranked way too loud, as usual.

Ignoring the mess of snack wrappers, tangled blankets and pillows flung across the couch and coffee table, Bea plucked the remote up to turn the volume down. "Stiles!"

There came no response from either of them. Bea knew her dad would be working to late in the night and wouldn't be home until long after she was asleep. Lately mom had been forgetting to make dinner. No, that wasn't quite right. She wasn't forgetting. It was as though she simply couldn't be bothered.

Bea was notably embarrassed when Talia remarked that she was losing weight and in response, sent her home with some leftover barbecue. _Peter always grills enough to feed an army_ , the exotic woman had excused when Bea burned from the inside out with humiliation. She could scarcely force herself to look at the overly generous portion of food. _Would you rather it go to waste?_

She stashed the food in the fridge, tucking it behind some left over take-out, and set off in the direction of her room with the intent to change into sweatpants, thinking about her bed that was unmade because she was in such a haste to leave that morning to meet Derek. They went fishing in the woods that afternoon, and since this was finally an activity that Bea knew she was good at—thanks to her dad—she'd been eager to join him.

She still chuckled at the expression on Derek's face when he saw the fish she reeled in. He was jealous, but he would never admit it. He insisted the reason he had so much trouble was because of his twin brothers, who'd taken to competing to see who could skip rocks farther. Bea could admit that the twins made a lot of noise but she thought the size of her fish was all the evidence she needed to finally prove that she was better than Derek at something.

When she stepped into her room she came up short. Stiles jumped back from her dresser and his hand immediately flew behind his back. He stood straight with his chest puffed out and a smile guilty as sin pinching his chubby cheeks. "Bea!" He squeaked. "W-When did you get home? I didn't hear you come in!"

"You little twerp!" She stomped over to him and Stiles stumbled over the mess of her clothes he'd thrown onto the floor.

"Mooooommm!" Stiles yelled, as his older sister grabbed him by the shoulder and pried whatever he hid behind his back into her hand.

Rage ignited in her chest when she saw that he'd somehow managed to find her diary. "Mickey!" She snarled, whacking him over the head with the leather bound cover. Stiles ducked away and bolted to the door. "STILES!"

"MOM! Bea just hit me!" Stiles darted into the hall and Bea threw the diary over her shoulder and leaped across her bed, moving so fast that she barelled at full speed into the hall and fell against the wall. She pushed off and swiped at Stiles, but he'd had a head start so he was able to dodge her fairly easily. He squealed out, " _MOM!"_ like a pack of wild dogs were on his tail, and Bea let loose a demented growl that made him more frantic.

Desperate to stop her, Stiles grabbed the laundry basket in the hallway piled high with folded, clean laundry to spill it behind him as he raced to his room. Bea jumped over the obstacle, but not in time to stop the door to Stiles' room from slamming in her face. She yanked the handle and threw her shoulder into it as hard as she could.

The door flew open and busted against the wall, and Stiles emitted a high-pitched shriek and dove onto his bed. She grabbed him by the leg and dragged him back, a sea of blankets following with him, and Stiles sloppily walloped her over the head with a pillow.

Bea waited for him to land another hit on her head and seized the opportunity to steal it from his grasp. As soon as the pillow was squeezed between her hands, Stiles froze and for a moment just stared up at her in horrifying realization at his mistake. Bea let out a war cry and brought the pillow down over her head, smacking him wherever she could, and Stiles yelped and wriggled furiously to try to escape.

In his haste he fell over the side of the bed and hit the floor. Bea swiped at his ankles but he kicked his foot out— _hard_ —and caught her in the chin. Pain blossomed across her jaw and Bea reared back with a cry. Stiles scrambled back over the carpet and bumped into his dresser, knocking down an army of action figures and a box of tissues into the floor.

Her chin throbbed hotly and stung slightly and she glared daggers at her brother she loomed over from atop the bed, clutching bitterly at her face.

"Sorry!" Stiles quickly exclaimed, his eyes wide with panic and worry. "I didn't _mean_ to!"

"Shut up!" She snapped. Bea swiped the pillow again and launched it at his head, and Stiles rolled into the surfboard resting against the wall beside him in an effort to escape. The pillow uselessly bounced off the wall and the surfboard fell almost in slow motion and knocked into his television, which teetered and fell into his pile of dirty clothes by the door. They both cried out in alarm.

Bea quickly climbed from his bed to go see if the television was damaged. She grabbed it and lifted it up to look at the screen, and sighed in aggravated relief. It wasn't cracked. She shook her head.

"Is it broken?"

"Shut the hell up!" She yelled at him again, and Stiles hollered back.

"You can't cuss!"

"You can't _read my diary!"_ Bea made a move like she was going to lunge for him again and Stiles flinched.

"Does mom know that you have a boyfriend?"

The shock was enough to make Bea freeze. " _What?"_

"Derek, your boyfriend!"

Bea scowled deeply and threw a shirt from his dirty laundry at his head. "He's not my _boyfriend_ , you idiot!"

Stiles smacked the shirt away and sat up straight, crawling back against the wall. "But you write about him all the time—"

"You can't even read!" Bea yelled, suddenly panicked. She'd written about that night. _That_ night! The night at Derek's house, the night she'd found out what he was.

"Yes I can too!" He hollered back, offended. "You stupid jerk! How else would I know about Derek?"

"Stiles!" She barked, and he flinched, still jumpy from their fight. "What did you see?"

He watched her reaction closely and she started towards him, but he jumped to his feet with his hands in front of him.

" _What did you read?_ "

He held his hands out at her and shouted, "Don't! I'll tell dad!"

"Tell him _what?"_ Her heart hammered in her chest and she forced herself to stop. Stiles took a large step back, his hands still up.

"What I read!" He lifted his chin and added, "It's bad!"

"Stiles!" She stopped, noting that he watched her almost too closely. Suddenly, it clicked. If Stiles had actually read about that night, he wouldn't be _threatening_ her. He'd be _questioning_ her! From the second she stepped through the door he'd have been hounding her endlessly with idiotic questions and— _that_ meant he didn't know. He didn't know that Derek was a werewolf. Somehow, miraculously, they were safe. She exhaled in relief. He must have started at the newest entry and she caught him before he could get to the good stuff.

Stiles, oblivious to what she'd just figured out, stepped forward eagerly. "I—I won't tell if you won't tell."

Bea's first instinct was to laugh. It was all she could do not to grin at his audacity. Stiles thought that he had her fooled. He didn't know how bad her secret actually was, so he assumed she believed that he knew something she didn't want their parents knowing, and that he could use it against her. Something small and harmless, like she held hands with Derek under the slide at recess or she got in trouble in class.

The truth was if Bea told her parents about what happened here, _Stiles_ would be the one in trouble, and he knew it. He went through her things. He read her diary. He had no idea what he barely missed discovering, and no idea that he grossly underestimated the weight of her secret.

"All right," Bea finally agreed, taking care to look pained and pissed. "I won't say anything _this time_." Inside, she was cackling evilly. He had no idea.

Stiles' jaw dropped and for a moment he couldn't keep the shock off his face. He quickly masked it, looking like he'd just gotten away with something grand. Then he got cocky. "You have to help me clean this up," He said, pointing to his now destroyed room.

Bea snorted and turned to leave. "I'm going to make dinner."

"Bea! This mess is your fault too!"

She whipped around and glared darkly at him, and Stiles clamped his mouth shut.

"I'm going to make dinner," She said again, more forcefully this time. A thought occurred to her. "What were you even doing in my room in the first place?"

Stiles suddenly couldn't look at her. He bent down to pick up a Spider-Man action figure and puffed his cheeks out huffily. "I was _looking_ for my present."

"Your what?" Bea frowned. Realization struck and she smacked her forehead. " _Really_ , Stiles? Your birthday isn't for two weeks!"

"It's _only_ two weeks away!" He asserted, his fists at his side. "But you haven't even gotten me anything!"

She had, of course. In fact, it was her best gift yet, if she did say so herself. A couple of months ago, Stiles had practically begged their mother to buy him a lego set from the store. Claudia promised at the time that if Stiles behaved, maybe he would get it for Christmas, but somehow Bea could just tell it was an empty promise made to placate her wild brother, so she'd mentally marked the item. The box was tucked safely in the garage in the last spot Stiles would ever think to look. Certainly not kept in her _bedroom_ of all places.

"After the stunt you pulled today you'll be lucky to ever get another gift from me again," she glowered. Stiles hung his head and shuffled to the mess of clothes where his television still lay. Rolling her eyes, Bea went to shove her brother out of the way and picked up the rather lofty box television. Stiles flanked her and made a bit of a fuss, insisting that he could help, but by the time he got his hands around the other side Bea'd already returned the stupid thing to its rightful place on the entertainment center. "Don't ask me for anything else today. Got it?"

"You don't have to be mean about it," Stiles pouted.

She ignored him. "Where's mom?"

Stiles shrugged as he idly poked at the mess he realized he would have to clean by himself if he wanted it gone before their parents discovered it. "She left earlier."

"She left? Where?"

"I don't know!" Stiles snapped, oblivious to how alarming that should've been. "She just left!"

Bea frowned as she processed this news and watched as Stiles went about snatching things from his floor and grumbling to himself.

* * *

 **January 2012**

 **Beacon Hills, CA**

 **The Stilinski House**

"Why do you have Debbie Moore's Facebook page printed out?" Stiles asked.

Bea jumped so violently she dropped the carton of take-out on the carpet of her bedroom. Exasperated, she let her hands fall uselessly against her side and pointed at Stiles in accusation. "You! You have to stop breaking into my room!"

He waved her off. "What, are you stalking my classmates? And who _prints_ _out_ a Facebook page? Do you even know how old that makes you seem?"

"Look at my carpet!" Bea whined. "It's gonna be stained with szechaun!"

Stiles slapped the stack of papers in his hand with the back of his fingers and tossed them back onto the neat, organized piles on her desk, which immediately ruined the organization she'd meticulously developed over the course of the day. "Can you focus on something other than food for two seconds?"

That pulled her attention away from where she'd hunched over the carpet to scoop the food back into the carton. "Don't talk to me right now," She lowly warned. "You ruined my meal. I haven't eaten since lunch. Do you know what that feels like? And you broke into my room—let's revisit _that_ conversation!"

"First of all, lunch was three hours ago. Second of all, you're hiding things from me again!" He countered. "What else am I supposed to do?"

"You know, it's actually healthy for siblings to maintain a certain amount of secrecy from each other." She stepped over the stained carpet and came up behind her brother to drop the carton onto her desk. With a sigh, she fell back on her bed with a bounce and rubbed her eyes. "It's called privacy. Remember? We're supposed to stay in separate corners now."

He stared at her for a long while, his face stiff with frustration. "Fine," He shrugged widely. "Fine! Don't tell me! I'm sure dad would love to hear that you're—"

"Doing my job?" She was unfazed by his feeble intimidations. "Yes, I'm sure that dad would love to hear that I've been working this hard at figuring out what's going on with the suicides."

Stiles looked back at her stack of research. "Okay, that explains why you have Andrew's portfolio—not how you got your hands on it, but why you have it—how _did_ you get it?" He hopped from train of thought to train of thought, like he'd done his whole life.

"Don't you have a test to study for? Or a girl to bother? Or a Scott?"

"Scott's on a date."

"What about Lydia?" Bea asked, aiming to distract him.

Stiles paused and blinked at the unexpected question. "What _about_ her?"

"Why aren't you bothering her?"

"Why—" Stiles broke off in frustration and waved his hands as if to clear the air of the uncomfortable topic. "Stop! Stop changing the subject! I know what you're doing and it's not going to work, okay?"

Bea shrugged innocently. "I just remember how much you used to talk about her, that's all. Curiously, I haven't heard a peep about her." Bea leveled a thoughtful look at him. "Curiously."

"What, are you Alice in Wonderland?" He frowned in annoyance. "You might as well forget it, I'm not going to drop this." He gestured at her desk and Bea sighed loudly and dropped back to her bed with a huff. He jabbed a finger into the stack of papers again. "This is a mystery. You're being mysterious. Do you _really_ want me trying to figure it out on my own?"

Bea grit her teeth. "Debbie Moore was the last victim."

"Really? Debbie?" Stiles' face fell. Bea felt guilty all of the sudden. It was easy to forget that he might know some of these kids. She nodded, genuinely sad. "How did you find out?"

Bea rubbed her forehead and sighed at her brother. "Stiles, I get that you're curious about what happened to your classmates, but this is my job and I take it seriously. I can't just _tell_ you that stuff."

"Why not?" He stood, frustrated. "I could help! I knew Debbie!"

"Really?" She paused. "How?"

"We've taken the same classes since third grade. We grew up together. What do you want to know?"

Bea considered it for a long moment. Finally, eyes stuck to his, she said, "Can you tell me who she ate lunch with?"

Stiles blinked at the question. He frowned thoughtfully. "She used to eat with her boyfriend, Roy. But then he moved away and she started sitting… well, I guess she sat alone." Stiles looked away, his jaw clenching. He scoffed softly. "I don't know what's worse, that she's gone, or that I'm getting used to people in this town leaving."

Bea nodded wordlessly and Stiles sighed and looked down. She could tell his mind was racing, and the atmosphere weighed the room down heavily. She wondered if he was thinking about Allison, and then thought that should be rather obvious.

"I'm sorry." Bea regretted involving him in any of this. She knew better, but he asked and she was desperate, and... "You don't have to tell me any more."

Stiles shrugged. "She played soccer. Junior varsity. She was good, I think. Or maybe not. Maybe I'm just saying that because…" He shook his head, unwilling to finish the thought.

"She was good," Bea reassured. "She was most improved player last year. It was in the yearbook."

"Where did you get my yearbook?" Stiles looked around and spotted it by the edge of her desk.

Bea quickly snatched it off the table and clutched it to her chest protectively. "I bought one."

"What?" Stiles frowned. "You… you _bought_ a yearbook?"

"Of course," Bea grumbled and shrugged a shoulder. "I've got all of your yearbooks."

"Wow." He looked uncomfortable by how much that seemed to mean to him. Stiles cleared his throat and looked anywhere but at his sister.

"Shut up," she snorted. Stiles smirked.

" _Anyways._ " He shook his head. "You've been holed up in here all day. What are you looking for?"

Bea sighed and sat back on the bed. "I'm trying to find some connection between the victims. Right now it seems like none of them were friends. But if that's true, then our theory about a suicide pact is sort of…"

"Unlikely," Stiles supplied with a raised eyebrow.

Bea grudgingly nodded. "And that puts me back at square one. Either way there will be a story— _their_ story—but when things like this happen in a community, people… they want a reason."

"Soccer and lacrosse have practice at the same time," Stiles noted. Bea raised her eyebrow at that.

"So?"

" _So_." He rolled his eyes. "So, Tyler Jones was on the lacrosse team."

Tyler was one of the victims, she recalled. "Then you knew him?" Bea eagerly sat forward.

Stiles shook his head. "No, he was a senior, and I'm not exactly sitting at the top of the social pyramid in Beacon Hills. He probably didn't even know who I was. He and Debbie knew each other though. Well, I'm guessing they did."

"How do you know that?" She was more than a little skeptical.

"Because Roy was on the team too, before he moved away." Stiles lifted his chin. "And Tyler and Roy were best friends."

"Oh," she paused. "Oh!"

Stiles raised his eyebrows at her excitement, evidently satisfied. He leaned back in the chair and gestured to the stack of research. "See? I told you I could help."

"Did Debbie have any girl friends?"

Stiles immediately nodded. "Definitely."

Bea thought about what she wanted to ask him to do, and she hesitated for a long time. Stiles rolled his eyes again.

"Would you just ask already? I'm going to do it anyway!"

"I can't! _You_ shouldn't." Bea shook her head. "You're a spastic idiot."

"Nice!" He threw his hands out. "Really nice! What a way to treat someone doing you a favor!"

"I'm serious! I know how you are. Seriously, don't talk to anyone. Leave it alone." Not to mention the fact that Bea was really beginning to sense, somewhere in the pit of her stomach, that this was all going to lead to something supernatural. She worked her ass off to protect Stiles from all of that from day one, and she'd been successful so far. No _way_ would she risk changing it now. Stiles never needed to know about the supernatural.

"You can't exactly stop me," Stiles pointed out, and Bea stood from the bed.

"This is not a joke, Stiles!" She shook her head fiercely. And because she couldn't admit the real reason she wanted to keep him as far as possible from this mess, she said, "This is my career. These are people's _lives!_ They're still grieving, and the last thing they need is you going around accusing them of something!"

Stiles, rebuffed, sounded offended as he asked, "What are you so afraid of them saying to me?"

Bea blanched. "I'm not afraid, I just…" Stiles looked on skeptically and Bea shook her head. "We're dealing with a bunch of hormonal, dramatic teenagers. You're telling me that Debbie and Roy were dating. Then Roy moved away. Tyler was Roy's best friend... Tyler and Debbie knew each other. Tyler committed suicide. Debbie committed suicide."

"So… what? You think they were having an affair?" Stiles exclaimed. "I don't know Bea, that's a bit of a leap, don't you think?"

"I don't know," she rationally admitted, making the extra effort to sound reasonable. "The truth is, it could be anything. Maybe Tyler and Debbie didn't know each other at all. Maybe they did. Maybe they didn't get involved until after Roy left. Maybe they planned their suicide together, maybe they didn't. Maybe it was a Romeo and Juliet situation, or maybe it was something else entirely. Who knows? But asking her friends any of that would be... That's just not the way to do this, okay? _You_ are not cut out for tactful interviews. It's just not in your nature."

"I'm not helpless, Bea!" He exclaimed. "It's really not fair for you to make assumptions about me. I'm a different person than I was two years ago!"

"Oh, don't act offended! You're fond of using a direct line of questioning. It's your M.O."

Stiles looked at her flatly. "My 'M.O.'"?

Silently acknowledging that he was proving her point _as they spoke_ , she nodded. "Your M.O! Short for modus operandi, which is Latin for—"

"A method of doing something, I know. God, you're so obnoxious!"

" _Especially_ if you think you already know the answer," Bea pointedly finished, raising her eyebrows at him. "And that can come off as an attack, which right now, is not helpful to anyone."

"Fine, fine, don't worry, I know how to respect someone's privacy. I'm not a kid."

 _Yes, you are,_ she thought.

He looked at her expectantly. When she didn't offer him anything, he said, "You're _welcome_ , by the way. What about the others?"

"Others?" She sighed. "No. You're not asking anyone anything. Period."

"You can't tell me what to do, Bea!" Stiles asserted.

"Stiles!" She threw her head back and groaned. "You know what? Fine! Let's table this conversation, okay? If I get desperate, you'll be the first person I call. But give me the chance to do this on my own first." It was a boldfaced lie, of course. She would let Cooper interview people before she let her brother anywhere near them, and there's not a snowball's chance in hell she would let her boss wander into this town. With her luck, he'd run straight into the supernatural as soon as his big toe crossed the county line.

Stiles shrugged. "Do what you need to do," He nodded.

She sighed in relief and checked the time. "Crap!" She stood. "It's getting late. I need to go before it's dark."

"What?" Stiles tried to duck out of the way when she went to grab him out of the chair. "Hey! Back off!"

Bea ignored him and grabbed him under the shoulder to haul him out of her desk and drag him out of her room. "You are not staying in here!"

"I'll go with you!" He eagerly proposed as she slammed the door in his face.

Turning, Bea went to gather all the research off her desk because she knew Stiles, and the last thing she needed was her brother meddling through her files unsupervised. Her messenger back was ruined at the station yesterday, of course, after that dog attacked it.

So Bea grabbed the gym bag she'd brought from her apartment—the one she'd put her families' Christmas presents into—and emptied the rest of its contents onto her bed. Clothes piled atop her bed, and she resolved to deal with them later. For now, she jammed all of the research into the bag and zipped it up.

Stiles jumped back from the door when she opened it and failed at looking casual as he leaned against the wall of the hallway and brushed back his untamed dark hair—which she still was unused to seeing. He cleared his throat. "Going to work out?" He guessed.

"No," she shoved around him. "I have to go take some pictures. I won't be long."

"You need a gym bag for that?"

He followed her into the mudroom, where she grabbed a jacket and her camera bag from the hooks they hung on. "There's pizza in the fridge," She told him, and opened the back door. "Oh," she turned back. "And if dad gets back before I do and notices the stain in my bedroom carpet, tell him I'll take care of it when I get back tonight."

"Great!" He sarcastically cheered. "Go adventure without me! My feelings aren't hurt at all."

"I love you," she waved.

Stiles snorted. "Don't worry, I won't snoop through your things while you're gone."

"I'm changing the locks to my room tomorrow!"

Stiles scoffed loudly and shouted one last thing as she shut the door in his face. "Ha! You can't afford it!"

Bea scowled and went to grab her bike from the garage. As loath as she was to admit it, she actually didn't hate that she didn't have a car to use. She enjoyed the feeling of the wind on her face and the quiet streets that she glided through.

Quiet, of course, until she got where she was going. Bea neared Riley Bridge and slowed way down at what she saw. There were police cars everywhere. A blockade had been put up. Her dad was already walking out to meet her before she could even get off the bike.

"Bea," He greeted unhappily. "What are you doing here?"

She eyed the deputy and other officers behind him, who weren't even pretending not to watch them. "I was just going to come take some pictures of the bridge."

"This is a crime scene," He said. "Have you been taking pictures of the bridge?"

"Crime scene? They're suicides." She trained her eyes on him, and noticed how he looked away at her valid point. "They're suicides," She said again. "How can it be a crime scene if there was no crime committed?"

"All _right_ ," He bit through clenched teeth, and made a calming motion with his hand. "Relax. It's… it's complicated."

Was he starting to suspect that they weren't suicides after all? Or had something else happened?

"It's just—" he broke off with an insincere smile that came out more as a grimace. Keeping his voice low, he leaned in and grabbed her shoulder to steer her away. "I'll tell you this as my daughter, not as a reporter. Are we clear?"

She nodded.

Sheriff sighed and looked over his shoulder at the blockade. "I'm blocking the bridge off to the public. Construction starts tomorrow."

"Construction?" She had a feeling she knew, but she wanted him to say it.

"They're putting up a suicide barrier, but I'm putting some officers out here to prevent anyone from going onto the bridge in the meantime."

"You think someone else might try to jump?" She deduced.

Sheriff sighed heavily and put his hands on his hips. "It's my job to keep it from happening. I never should have let it go on for as long as it has."

If Bea were a more honest person she'd point out that there was more ways to accomplish suicide than jumping from Riley Bridge. But she knew that was not a constructive comment to make, and worse, it was discouraging. So she kept her comments to herself and nodded.

"Then I assume there's no way I could get on the bridge tonight?"

"Why would you want on the bridge?"

"Sheriff!" Called Parrish, who was talking to some man wearing a flannel and a baseball cap carrying a clipboard. "When you get a minute?"

He waved at them and turned back to Bea. "I have to go, but to answer your question, no. You can't get on the bridge tonight. Or ever again, for that matter—at least until construction is finished."

"But—"

"No buts this time, Bea," He warned, pointing at her. "I have to go."

"Dad!" She called, and he waved goodbye as he made his way back up the hill to join Parrish and the man with the clipboard. Bea groaned and kicked the pedal of her bike.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, she was walking alongside her bike. The chain clicked sluggishly as it moved with her pace, and Bea sighed heavily to herself. She was back in town by then and the sun had just finished setting. It was dark out and the breeze was cool. All in all, Bea felt like she'd wasted a day. She felt like she was spinning her tires in the mud.

She walked her bike over to a bench that sat outside a small convenience store, and leaned it against the side before she collapsed to think for a moment.

There must be some way to get on that bridge and see if there were more names on the pole. There had to be a way. Maybe if she waited until later tonight, after her dad was away from the bridge, she could go back and tell the officers that… that… what?

Someone settled onto the seat beside her and she sighed as she absently scooted over to make room. She glanced over and froze, then did a double take. Bea nearly fell off the side of the bench and Peter just calmly watched, looking blasé with his legs crossed and one arm over the back of the bench.

"Evening," He said.

She failed to keep a short, high cry from escaping her lips as she scooted as far away as she could on the bench.

It was as close as Peter could come to smiling. "Surprised?"

"Impossible! You're supposed to be in a hospital! You're supposed to be burned and—" Bea gaped at him and tried to look for any trace of the burns she saw before. "The last time I saw you, you were wrapped like a mummy and you were in a coma."

"Medically induced," He qualified with a tilt of his head. "To help with the pain and the healing process." Peter sighed complacently, though to Bea it seemed somewhat fake. "It worked, obviously."

Bea snorted bitterly and shook her head. "I don't understand. Did you heal? I mean—was it because you're…" She glanced around at the empty street. Averse to utter the words aloud for fear of being overheard, Bea focused a meaningful look on him and he raised his eyebrows as if to mock her.

Still, he didn't comment on it. "It was a bit of a process, I'll admit. Do you really want me to go into details?"

She stared at him for a long moment. "No," she prudently decided, and looked around. "Where's Derek?"

"At home." Peter sat back comfortably. "He couldn't make it."

Bea frowned. "He doesn't know you're here," she surmised.

"You sound so sure of that," Peter argued. "How do you know he just didn't care?"

"Because you're you," she nodded at him knowingly. "And because I'm me."

"Compelling argument." Peter sighed loudly. "Although, I'll admit you're not wrong."

"Okay, so the truth is, you snuck away from him to stalk me to a bench in the middle of the night." She shook her head in bewilderment. "I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that you're… _back_."

"I know the feeling," He watched her closely, which made her quash the urge to squirm just like it always had. " _You've_ been out of town for a while yourself. And yet... here we are." He splayed his hands out to the empty street and Bea wondered at her life, that she would end up sitting beside the person who aggravated her the most in the world. A person she long thought - not dead, but...

"What do you want?" She cut to the chase.

Peter shifted to face Bea and put on what might've been an earnest expression, though Bea didn't buy it for a second. "I'm here to accept the offer that Derek declined," He declared, his teeth as white as she remembered.

She frowned and scrutinized him. There's only one thing he could be referring to, and that's the last conversation she had with Derek. She'd asked him to help her and he'd said _no_. For a long moment Bea didn't say anything to Peter, didn't move. She just glared.

Peter considered her silence and her expression. "Unless you've decided you don't need help?"

She didn't miss a beat. "I don't."

"Really?" He asked, like he knew she was lying. He was amused. "Be honest, now."

Her lip snarled with distaste. "What _exactly_ is it that you're proposing?"

"To help you get to the bottom of these suicides. The plain truth is I agree with you. There's more going on. Derek can see it too; he's just letting your… _history_ cloud his judgment. You know how he is. I, however, can see the bigger picture." Peter tilted his head in mock sympathy. "And you _do_ need help, whether you're willing to admit it or not. What do you say? Let bygones be bygones?"

"You?" She snorted, pointing at him. "Help? Me?"

Peter's perfectly practiced expression of sincerity cracked. He scrunched his face in distaste. "You know, it's alarming that you work for a newspaper when you can hardly string together a coherent thought."

Bea ignored that. "Why?"

" _Why?"_ He repeated, his eyebrows high. "Why is that alarming?"

She clenched her fist to keep from hitting him. " _No!_ Why do you want to help me? This isn't… it's out of character, to say the least."

Peter frowned. "It's like you said, Bea. People are _dying_. I won't stand by and let it continue to happen. Not again."

Her instinct was to mock him, but then her mind flashed to the Hale fire and she felt an unwelcome surge of sadness and sympathy for the man beside her. Either he truly meant what he said, or he missed his calling as an actor. Bea narrowed her eyes to search for any sign of duplicity, but she could detect nothing other than honesty. That worried her, naturally. After all, this _is_ Peter. "And the fact that it would piss Derek off is just a bonus, I guess."

Peter pursed his lips. "You leave Derek to me."

"Oh yes," Her drawl was amused. "Because you've done so well with him in the past."

His eyes flashed. "At least I _did_ something."

"You know what?" Bea moved away. "I really _don't_ need your help."

He stared at her for a long moment as a car passed by. "You think so?"

"Believe it or not I don't _trust_ you, Peter." Bea crossed her arms.

Peter scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Grow up, Bea."

Her hands balled into fists and her back went rigid. He noticed this and paused.

"You were right," He suddenly announced, catching her by surprise. "The names on the pole?" She almost denied it but he cut her off. "Yes, Derek told me about that. He told me everything. He also told me he thought that particular detail was nothing, but I wanted to see for myself. So I went to look this morning before the police set up the barricade, and you were right. Debbie's name was scratched in. But that's not all. There was another name. A new one. One not included in the victims so far."

"Why should I trust anything you say?" Bea shook her head in disgust and Peter let it roll off him like water to a duck's feathers.

"I thought you might say that," He acknowledged, leaning to one side to dig out his phone. "I have pictures."

"It's 2012," She lightly pointed out. "And since I'm never one to underestimate someone, I'd say you're at least familiar with the concept of Photoshop."

Peter's face froze like it always did when he was concealing his emotions. She could tell by his cool gaze that she'd pissed him off just a bit, and couldn't help but feel smug knowing that she still had that capability as much as he did. "Yes, obviously you've thought of everything except how to get out there and see the pole for yourself. So why don't you tell me why I would go through all the trouble of doctoring a picture just to convince you to let me help you?" He tilted his head in challenge. "What could I possibly stand to gain from that?"

Bea's eye twitched. "My trust?"

"And what in the _world_ would I want that for?" He outright laughed. "Fine. If the picture isn't enough I could just take you out to the bridge myself."

Amazed at his arrogance, she shook her head. "There are too many policemen out there."

"They can't possibly keep the whole station there all night. Soon, they'll drop to one or two patrolmen. There's a whole city out there to protect and serve, after all." Peter seemed confident as he said, "Believe me, I can get you out there to show you in person."

She dropped the stoic act and rubbed her forehead in frustration. After a calming breath, she spoke. "You're not going to let this go, are you?" It was the same question Derek asked, but the context felt so different now.

Peter simply looked at her, neither confirming nor denying that accusation. He tilted his head at her and she clenched her fists tighter to curb the urge to punch him.

"You'll become involved with or without me," She stated.

He raised an eyebrow. "People are dying."

For a long moment, she just stared at him, as though if she looked long enough she may be able to catch a glimpse into his mind and figure out what the hell he was plotting. But truthfully she was desperate, and at the very least Bea thought his involvement might force Derek's hand to cooperate, and wasn't that what she wanted in the first place?

"Fine," She relented through clenched teeth. "We'll work together. But only because I don't trust you."

"That doesn't make sense," Peter pointed out. "You do realize that?"

"I can't turn you loose on this case," She elaborated. "There are too many good people involved."

"That's funny, because from where I'm sitting you don't have any other choice."

Bea scowled at him and he simply stared back at her, unbothered.

* * *

 _(A/N):_ ** _PLEASE review!_**

 _WHOO! Things are picking up, aren't they? Next chapter will be fun, trust me :) Let me know what you're thinking please!_


	8. Chapter 8

_(A/N): Okay guys, a little bit of a different update here... There's not going to be a flashback to start out. I wrote the second part first this time and then it just sort of ended up being more of a stand alone chapter. Next time we'll switch back to the way it's normally formatted, so apologies if this is a little weird at first._

 _Fair warning: This chapter will pick up where last chapter left off, then jump ahead, then back again, and, well... you'll see. But be prepared for a nonlinear timeline for this one._

* * *

 **January 2012**

 **Beacon Hills, CA**

 **Riley Bridge**

It came as no great surprise that Peter was right. The police had left, just as he predicted, likely off patrolling the streets and responding to emergency calls, the city's tax money hard at work. Two lone officers remained and it was impossible for Bea to identify them from their distance, but she knew they were neither the sheriff nor the deputy because she didn't recognize their car parked nearby.

Bea felt panicky. She didn't trust Peter, not for a second, and she was questioning her sanity. Right now, they were crouched around the bike trail that led up to the path to the bridge, hidden well behind the overgrown underbrush near the edge of the river.

The water rushed and Bea tried not to recall the last time she'd been out here at night.

"So what's the plan here?" Whispered Bea, pulling Peter's gaze away from the horizon beyond them. She felt like they were seconds away from being spotted and there's Peter, just gazing off in the distance. She could hit him. "You _do_ have a plan, right?"

"Well…" he hummed, his eyes darting over the bridge and the officers rather fleetingly.

Bea inflated with disbelief. She held in the insults she wanted to hurl and instead hissed, "What? Are you joking? You're joking! Go do something!"

Peter raised his eyebrows at her. "Me?"

" _Yes_ , you! Go hypnotize them or something!"

His face scrunched at her suggestion and she flailed an arm, which he quickly captured and plastered to her side safely out of the officers' view. "How about we don't wave our hands at them? Let's start with that."

How could he be so _calm?_ "Get out there and _do_ something!" She whisper screamed. "Before they catch us both!"

"You know, we could just call 911," Peter suggested.

Bea felt her eyes widen in horror. "Absolutely not!" She adamantly shook her head. "That's illegal."

Peter seemed pained to have to put up with her. "It would _distract_ them."

"It would be illegal!"

"It would get them away from the bridge," he reasoned.

"Call and say _what_ , exactly?"

"Report a crash on the highway a couple of miles out."

Her eyes bugged at that. "We could go to prison!"

He rolled his eyes. "Don't be so dramatic."

Hearing that from Peter must have meant she deserved some sort of award. She shook her head again. "No. I'm not breaking the law with you tonight, Peter. There's got to be another way. What if they were instructed not to respond to that type of thing anyways?"

"Your father would tell them to ignore an emergency like that? They're the closest units to the crash." Peter leveled an almost disapproving look at her, as though _she_ were culpable for her father's poor leadership skills, and Bea had had enough.

"There _is_ no crash!" She exclaimed, and then clamped her mouth shut and whipped her head around to see if the officers overheard her. They didn't, and she sighed in relief. She paused at the expression on Peter's face.

"There _could_ be," he muttered, watching her reaction closely.

"Peter!" She admonished, and he sighed laboriously and looked like he wanted to add more, perhaps suggest other illegal alternatives, but also knew when to keep his mouth shut.

"What would you recommend, then?" Peter grudgingly asked, like he wasn't expecting anything.

Bea stalled. She looked at the river, at the woods, at the officers. Her mind raced. She struggled to focus past her frantic nerves. She wasn't cut out for this. "I don't know!"

He sighed as though tasked with something frivolous and rolled his eyes. "Stay here."

"Okay," she frantically agreed, until he sank away and disappeared into the shadows. "Wait!" She gasped. "What?"

Peter slinked along the edge of the bike trail and Bea's heart practically burst out of her chest it hammered so quickly. Her pulse was loud enough to drum over the sound of the river and Bea cast a panicked look at the woods on the other side. The officers stood against the railing of the bridge, chatting about god knows what, while Peter crept closer and closer.

There came an unexpected noise from somewhere near where Peter was, and the officers turned in tandem to peer through the night. They exchanged a look and one of them pointed directly at the spot Bea just watched Peter disappear from.

The shorter officer clapped his brother in arms on the back, and pulled out a flashlight. He strode over the bridge to aim the beam in the direction of where Peter was hidden. Bea practically shifted from foot to foot in panic. Should she make a noise? Should she distract them? Throw a rock!

 _That's it!_ She looked all around at the ground, the grass and thick leaves and branches of the bushes. There were sticks, plenty of sticks, but _where were the rocks?_

The officer was walking off the bridge now, going to investigate the noise they heard further, and Bea was torn between throwing the stick she hadn't even realized she picked up into the river and waiting to see what Peter did next.

The shorter one started down the hill, his light pointed behind a tall bush, and he was right in front of where Peter was—

In the parking lot nearby, an alarm blared. Bea's heart jumped into her mouth and she muffled a yelp with her hand. Just as the officers whipped around to look at the parking lot, she gasped in relief and realized Peter had somehow caused a car alarm to set off.

The shorter officer called up to his partner. She couldn't quite make out what they were saying, but she thought she caught the phrase _I'll go_ , and she watched the shorter one climb out of the brush and back onto the path.

Bea ducked down as he turned in her direction for a moment. She held her breath and went completely still. After counting to ten, she peeked back over the bush. The shorter officer was making his way over to the parking lot and had his hand on his holster as he went, his flashlight leading the way.

The taller officer was still left on the bridge. He passed from one end to the other, his light scanning all around the river. He looked on edge and nervous. He must have heard something from the woods, because he whipped around and withdrew his gun, aiming it and the flashlight at the trees overhead.

Bea felt an amused snort catch in her throat. But it wasn't funny, what was wrong with her? It wasn't _funny_ ; it was real!

The officer backed away from the woods slowly. Peter suddenly appeared on the end of the bridge and Bea tried to figure out where the hell he'd come from and how he'd gotten around the other officer unseen. She looked back to the parking lot, but it was mostly hidden out of her view and she didn't expect to see him anyways.

Peter slowly crept along the bridge and the officer kept his gun aimed at something unseen in the trees. He lowered his light and reached for the radio on his shoulder, and Peter moved faster than Bea could follow.

She just saw a black streak surge to the officer and suddenly he collapsed, and Peter bent over him. Bea flew out from behind the bush and ran at the bridge in a blind panic, assuming the worst.

Her feet beat the path loudly and she sucked in panicked breaths, her gaze torn between the car park and the bridge, and she stopped at the barricade in front of the bridge and tried to figure out how Peter got around it so quickly.

He was there suddenly in front of her, offering his hand, looking totally collected and natural. She gaped at him. "Come on, hurry," Urged Peter, waving his hand. "We don't have much time."

"You're _crazy!"_ She exclaimed.

With that he dropped his hand and gave her a hard glare. "This is what you wanted! You told me to do something. You wanted to see the pole for yourself. I do what you ask of me, and still _I'm_ the bad guy?"

" _This_ —" she shook her head and looked at the crumpled officer, and back at the car park where the other officer was in god knows what condition, and shook her head again furiously at Peter. " _This_ is not what I meant!"

His eyes were wide and equally as angry as Bea's as he pointed at the pole behind them. "We can argue about the morals of this later; right _now_ , you need to come see these names and we need to get out of here before that other officer gets back!"

She hopped over the ledge of the barrier and followed Peter to the pole, her hands shaking. They passed the fallen officer and she couldn't help but gawk.

 _He's not dead_ , she assured herself. _He's alive._

She looked questioningly at the back of Peter's head, and she wondered…

He didn't so much as acknowledge her prying gaze or even the officer that lay a few feet behind them as he came to a stop beside the pole. His finger went straight to the name and Bea blinked.

 _DEBBIE_

In scratched, capital letters, spelled out plain as day, just as she suspected. It was undeniable now. So why did she still not trust it? The irrational thought struck her and she looked back at Peter. Was it him? Did he write this in the pole?

"And this name now too," He noted, oblivious to her train of thought as he tapped at another name. "Sasha."

Bea froze. She slowly looked at where he indicated, and even when she saw it, she didn't want to believe it. A sickness crept into her. She could hardly stand to look, and she was filled with dread and denial. The rational part of her was screaming to get the hell out of there before something terrible happened.

"I take it you know her?" Peter deduced, and Bea couldn't even bring herself to nod.

She clenched her jaw, and pulled out her phone with oddly steady hands. There was no flash as she snapped the picture and she was glad for it, still afraid that the officer might catch them. "Yes," she said, her voice hollow as she stared at the newest picture on her phone. "I know her."

* * *

She hadn't made it as far as her bed. Bea sat with her eyes closed in the dim light of her room, waiting for the anxiety to subside and drowsiness to creep in. But it wouldn't. Of course it wouldn't. She was wide-awake.

She should have known things would go wrong when she agreed to work with Peter. She should have known. Deep down, she thought maybe she _had_ known. But as he said so many years before… desperation clouds judgment. It makes you vulnerable.

Her hands trembled as she pressed play on her tape recorder.

Diane's voice had been tired, the sound of a woman at her wit's end. "I don't know what you want me to say here, uh…" She paused and took a breath. "Sorry, what's your name again?"

"Bea," answered her own voice. "You can call me Bea. All right if I record this?"

"I don't see why not." Diane let her breath out slowly, and in her mind Bea could still picture the way the smoke of her cigarette curled through the morning air and hung beautifully for just a moment until the wind blasted it apart. "There's nothing I have to hide. I don't feel ashamed for what I did. Sasha _pushes_ ; it's what she does. She's done it all her life. She pushes and pushes just to see how far you can bend. Sometimes I think she just likes to watch you _break_."

"So you two had an argument?" Bea gently guided the conversation, as she always did when she was interviewing someone.

"We _always_ had an argument," Diane snorted. Bea recalled the way Diane's face looked sad despite the irritation in her voice, and how she looked down as she flicked the ashes off her cigarette. "That's how we communicate in our family."

"When I met you two on the bridge last week you seemed… happy."

" _Happy?_ " Diane laughed. She thought about it for a second and then her voice drooped as she admitted that, "Yeah, I guess we were. I took Sasha out to ice-skate that night, like we used to do when we were little. She's good at it, because of the gymnastics. We were celebrating my promotion."

"You work here at the music store?"

"Seven years working here," Diane sighed. "Seven god damn years of my life, and this is my _first_ promotion. Oh, it's a good promotion, don't get me wrong—general manager?" She snorted, her voice light and mocking, though she didn't seem totally ungrateful. "Shit… I've got _benefits_ now. Dental insurance. Maybe now Sasha can get that freaking tooth of hers fixed. She's got one crooked, right here in front. You noticed it? Probably not, it's nothing, but she always used to say she wanted braces. That shit's expensive and we could never spare the money. Other things would happen—car needed new tires, furnace took a dump, _car_ took a dump. There's always something. But maybe now…"

"Congratulations on your promotion," Bea said. "It sounds like you really deserve it."

Diane was smiling. "Thanks. I do."

"Getting back to the night we met, what brought you out to the bridge? You said you went ice-skating. That's the clear across the city."

"Oh, you can thank Sasha for that little expedition," Diane chuckled. "She knew about the suicides—everyone in _town_ knew by that point—and Sasha wanted to go _see_."

"See?"

"She's a demented little shit," Diane laughed. "God love her, she listens to those creepy true crime podcasts. She could tell you the life story of nine different serial killers. Believe me—I know _way_ more about Ed Gein's childhood than I ever wanted to. I thought it was because she wanted to be a cop for the longest time, but she doesn't. She wants to be a crime reporter, like… well, kinda like _you_ , I guess."

Bea had smiled softly and Diane gave her a shrug before she continued. "I didn't want to go to the bridge, but… Sasha asked nicely, and, well… I was in the giving mood, I suppose." She paused. "And aren't you glad? We never would've met, you and me."

Bea sounded wry as she replied, "Yeah, funny how life works sometimes, isn't it?"

"You're telling me. Anyways, I guess that was the last night she and I were… _okay_. It never lasts long." Diane blew out a long, heavy sigh, and Bea remembered how she shook her head, and how sorrowful and frustrated she seemed. "Look, me and my sister fight— _a lot_. But we don't ever… we never walk away!" Diane had looked up at her then, her eyes passionate and angry, as though she were looking at Sasha and not Bea. "We don't just leave! That's not how we do things!"

"But Sasha left," Bea noted.

Diane had turned away to toss her half-finished cigarette on the ground. "Yeah," She ground out, the word coming out of her mouth like a curse. "She _ran away_. I thought something happened, I thought— _Jesus_ … I thought—" Diane broke off and shook her head, unable to finish the sentence.

"Because she ran away the same night Debbie Moore was found."

"Yeah!" Diane bitterly agreed, the pain evidently still raw and fresh in her mind. "Except that was before the police revealed the name of the victim, remember? They just released her name this morning. And like I said, Sasha was obsessed with that true crime crap. She'd have it going on the TV and sometimes I would be forced to watch and I guess I just… you pick up things, okay? It was because of those documentaries that I knew police can't… if they find a body, they can't reveal the identity to the public before the victim's family is notified.

"And I just thought… I heard about the newest victim New Years night, and Sasha didn't come home, and the next morning came and she _still_ wasn't home, and the police wouldn't release the name of the victim, and I… I went straight to the station. You saw me there, remember?"

"You were filing a missing person report," Bea agreed.

Diane let out a hysterical, teary laugh. "I _never_ thought she would ever run away, you have to understand that—I never in a million _years_ thought she could just… That she would ever _want_ to…" Diane took a moment and cleared her throat before she continued. "Truth is, it hurts my feelings. I break my back every day to take care of this kid and it's like she can't get away from me fast enough. I didn't even know where to look for her."

"You found her though, didn't you?"

"In a motel," Diane fumed. "That shitty flea trap just off 5. The one not too far from Riley Bridge, actually, you know it?"

"Sure," Bea nodded. "How did you find her there?"

" _I_ didn't. That kid did, the one from school. Mason, I think is his name."

" _Mason?"_

"Yeah, I guess he was with her the night she left home. After that vigil, he and a group of his friends decided to go eat at a diner in town, and they saw Sasha there. He must have recognized her, or… I don't know why, but he decided to go sit with her for a bit, and she told him what she was planning to do."

Bea had been amazed at the time that Mason fit into this story somehow. She'd made a mental note to go speak with him.

Diane drew in a deep breath. "He came to find me at work. He's a good kid, that guy. He said he was worried about her and he wanted to make sure I knew where she was, in case something… well, he's smart, too. He wanted to be sure that I knew she wasn't _dead_ , or something stupid like that, I guess."

"Yeah, Mason is a good guy," Bea agreed.

"Well, as soon as I found out where she was I zipped straight over. And she—I still don't understand! I really, _really_ don't! Why would she want to _stay_ there, how could she?... I went to take her home and she basically told me to eff off. I… I told her not to bother coming home." Diane sounded miserable as she said, "I told her she wasn't welcome anyways."

Just then, something in the kitchen broke, startling Bea. She smacked the pause button on the tape recorder, silencing Diane's distressed voice, and Bea rested a hand over her racing heart. She listened for another second and heard dishes clattering. The clock on her computer informed her it was just after six in the morning.

Had it really been over twenty-four hours since she and Peter were at the bridge? And over _twelve_ since she'd been at the motel with her dad? She thought back to the start of the day, to the first thing she did after interviewing Diane that morning…

* * *

Bea waited in her dad's office. She sat outwardly unruffled, the only sign of her inner turmoil translating as a nervous tick in her finger that wouldn't stop tapping the armrest of the chair.

The telephone started ringing. A button on it was lit up, bright orange, indicating that line three was trying to reach her father. Bea cleared her throat and turned around to peer out the open door.

Parrish had the phone up to his ear. He pointed at her and gestured. She frowned. Parrish shook the phone in his hand, pointed at her, and gestured again.

"Oh!" Bea turned to the phone on her dad's desk, and looked back at Parrish uncertainly.

He reached up and jabbed something at his phone. The ringtone interrupted itself as he pressed the button over and over again. Rolling her eyes, Bea picked up.

"Took you long enough," He greeted.

"Uh..." she looked over her shoulder again, unsure of why he wanted to talk to her. He was turned away in his chair now, leaning back leisurely like he was talking to someone in class or something. "Yeah, this is a little weird."

"What?" He turned in his chair to look at her. "Is it?"

She smirked in amusement and nodded at him. "A little."

"Should I just come over and talk to you?"

"It would be less weird."

He nodded and started to hang up. Suddenly he jerked the phone back. "You know, actually, there is a reason I did this."

She raised her eyebrows at him from across the station.

"Yeah, I got trouble last time I talked to you."

Bea laughed loudly. "What?"

"Look, don't worry, it was entirely my fault," He put his hands up. "I take full responsibility. I was an idiot and I named dropped the Argents."

She let out a mock gasp. "The Argents?"

"I know." He threw his head back and rubbed his face. "They're kind of a big deal around here."

"Well they've been around for a while." Bea crossed her legs. "They've made a name for themselves."

He snorted. "Sure," Parrish agreed. "Oh, someone's buzzing me on the other line. This is a little awkward. I actually have to go."

"Bye, Parrish." She shook her head and hung up the phone. Welcoming the distraction, Bea turned to study Parrish. Oddly, he wore the short-sleeved version of the uniform that day, which was unusually rainy for early January weather. She wondered if it was because he, like her father, waited till all his clean uniforms were dirty before finally doing the laundry.

"Stop laughing," said a man just on the other side of the far wall. "Why are you laughing?"

"I'm not laughing."

Through the blinds of the windows in her dad's office, Bea saw the shorter officer from last night back into view. She gasped and lurched in her seat. From the corner of her eye, she saw Parrish look up at her curiously.

"I'm not joking! I heard his voice!" Insisted the taller officer.

"Andrew, we checked the area three times. It wasn't your brother." The shorter officer took a drink from the coffee mug in his hand. "This morning is gonna suck hard enough, okay? Sheriff is making us pull a double shift and I really don't need you stuck on this all day."

"It was him." Andrew, the taller officer, shook his head. "I heard his stupid laugh in the woods when you went to check out the car alarm. Then, someone jumped me from behind and knocked me out! It was him and that dumb ass friend of his, they were messing with me."

"Why?" His partner rationally pointed out. "Why would he do that?"

"Because he's an asshole, Jared!" Andrew shouted. "He's always been a little asshole! He didn't believe I would make it through the academy and now that I have he's hell bent on embarrassing me."

"You're embarrassing your _self_ ," Short Jared informed him, and waved him off dismissively as he drained his mug of coffee and walked back towards the lobby. "Come on, we're late for patrols."

"I heard his stupid laugh!" Andrew insisted, chasing after Jared. He made a braying noise, some sort of wheezing laugh that apparently mimicked his brother. "Just like that!"

Jared smacked the back of his head when he noticed Parrish glaring at them. "Shut up, you idiot!"

Andrew struck back at him in the shoulder. "Stop! Don't hit me in the head! I'm concussed, you jerk!"

"Would you shut up already? Christ!"

They disappeared through the lobby.

Bea couldn't help but sigh in relief. Apparently, her dad decided to put the two dumbest officers on duty at the bridge last night, and by some stroke of good fortune, she and Peter didn't have to worry about them figuring out they were the ones there. She supposed Peter didn't care one way or the other, but she felt like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She didn't have to worry about looking her dad in the eyes now.

Finally she stood from the chair and strode through the office with her gaze fixed intently on Parrish's desk. If her dad didn't have time, she would find another way—

Sheriff stepped out of a hall where there was an interrogation room looking subdued and upset. He hadn't noticed Bea yet, so she was able to watch as he rubbed his face and composed himself. Their eyes met. Sheriff went rigid.

"Bea," He said, his eyes going first to the open door behind her and then to his deputy, who looked on knowingly. "We agreed that you were supposed to wait in my office."

"Well, this is important." She tried to express her urgency whilst still remaining calm. Parrish was watching—nosy bastard—and she knew better than to make a scene in the middle of the station.

"I—"

The room down the hall opened and Sheriff clamped his mouth shut. He cleared his throat and moved out of the way as a middle-aged couple with tear-streaked faces emerged. They looked well groomed and wore clothes that Bea thought of as leisure clothes for a wealthy family. Golf shorts and a polo shirt looked rumpled but new on the man, who had his arm around the woman's shoulders. She wore a similar outfit.

If Bea didn't know better, she might've guessed they were on vacation.

"Deputy Parrish, why don't you show the Moores where the coffee is before they go down to the morgue?" Sheriff focused his gaze meaningfully on Parrish, who instantly stood and knew that he was being delegated the responsibility of taking this couple to identify their dead daughter. Bea worked it all out very quickly.

Thinking of what Diane mentioned that morning, Bea realized the reason the police waited so long to publicly release Debbie's identity was because her parents had been on vacation, and likely unreachable until today.

She noted that the man looked pale and had red-rimmed eyes. "No," he said with a shockingly steady voice to Parrish, forcing a polite smile on his pained face. "No, thank you, I think we would just like to see our daughter."

A sob bubbled out of the woman's mouth and she muffled it with the crumpled tissue in her hand. Bea felt out of place and awkward, and she subtly moved farther out of their sight, back towards the safety of her father's office.

Sheriff was gesturing with a nod to Parrish, motioning him to hand the box of tissues from his desk over to the distraught couple. The woman delicately accepted another tissue with a graceful nod. Parrish didn't immediately move the box away, and after a brief moment's consideration, the woman took two more tissues.

Her dad opened his mouth like he wanted to add something, but nothing came out. Mr. Moore gave him a nod and with that, Parrish led the way through the station to the lobby. Sheriff watched until they passed through the doors that took them outside. For a long moment he just stared at where they'd gone, his mind far away. Thinking randomly of her mom, Bea could guess where it might be.

Good lord, she needed a drink.

"They'd been invited to play at a new golf club that just opened in Scotland," Sheriff said with a mystified frown. "It was… very exclusive?"

Bea couldn't help but feel amused at her dad's reaction to the news.

"I didn't even know that people… _did_ that sort of thing," He admitted. "They received the call about their daughter before he'd even teed up his first ball."

Bea nodded. "I don't know what to say," She admitted.

Sheriff shook his head and sighed heavily. "You don't have to say anything, I don't even know why I told you that."

She waited for him to meet her before continuing on to his office at his side. "Because you shouldn't have to carry around all that horrible crap in your head alone."

Sheriff snorted tiredly. "It's my job," he said.

"It's my job, too," she quietly admitted. "I really need to be talking to the families."

"You're respecting their privacy." Sheriff closed the door of his office behind them and went to settle in at his desk while Bea sank back into the chair across from him.

"Maybe," She agreed. "Look, dad… I need to tell you something. But when I do, you can't ask me how I found out."

He slowly dropped his hand from the side of his head. Letting it fall limply against his chair's armrest, Sheriff sat up to glare at Bea. "What did you do?"

"Nothing!" she said, too quickly. She scowled. "I didn't _do_ anything. I just found some information out. It's just another hazard of my job, that's all. And you know I can't reveal my sources."

Her dad clenched his fists and looked like he wanted to argue with her. "Fine," He relented, shocking the daylights out of her. "What is it that you want to tell me?"

Funny, she noted, that he didn't ask what it was she knew, but what it was she wanted to tell him. Her dad was nothing if not clever. Or maybe he just knew her. Either way, she admitted it would be impossible if she ever had to lie directly to him. "There's a girl I'm worried about. She goes to high school. I've met her a couple of times now."

"Who is she?" He asked.

"Her name is Sasha. She was friends with Mariah."

His face blanched at the name. Sheriff nodded steadily. "You think she might try something?"

She frowned. "Not exactly," she hedged. "I think she's in trouble."

At this, Sheriff sat up straight. "What do you mean?"

"I _mean_ she ran away from home," Bea finally informed him. Sheriff's eyebrows went high and he leaned back in his chair as he processed the news. "Her sister made a missing person report after New Years, the day all those people were here… the protestors. The day I came in for Parrish's interview."

He nodded quickly. "I know the report you're talking about. You're saying this kid's been found, and no one called us?"

Bea put her hands up. "Hey, don't shoot the messenger."

"I'm not, I just—" he sighed in frustration and rubbed his eyes. "Okay, so they found her. What are you worried about?"

"She didn't come home. Her and her sister were fighting, which is why she ran away—I guess, I'm honestly not sure _why_ she ran away—but anyways, when Diane went to the motel to bring her home, they fought again and long story short, she told Sasha she wasn't welcome home."

"Well, that…" Sheriff blinked and shook his head. "She went to bring her home and ended up telling her to stay away?"

Bea reluctantly nodded. "From what I gather, it was a pretty nasty fight that was a long time coming."

Sheriff pinched the bridge of his nose. "Well, she can't stay in a motel alone. How old is this girl?"

"That's why I'm coming to you now," Bea agreed. "She's a minor, she can't be any older than Stiles. I don't even know how she can afford to rent a room."

"All right." Sheriff nodded to himself as if deciding something. "All right. You said you knew these girls?"

"Diane works at the music store downtown," Bea paused. "She manages it, actually. Recent promotion."

Her looked at her oddly. "How well do you know these people again?"

She shrugged a shoulder. "We met last week."

He shook his head in wonder, and shrugged it off. "Well… let's go, then."

* * *

"You want to talk to her? Good luck," Diane scoffed. Bea was having a bit of trouble not looking at a guy who sat on a cushion nearby, plucking out notes on a guitar and shamelessly eavesdropping on their conversation. If his shirt was anything to go by, he was an employee of Diane's.

"Our hope is that she'll be more receptive with you there." Her dad stood with his hands at his hips and his eyes trained studiously on Diane. That always made Bea pressured when she received that look from him, like she felt the weight of the world's expectations resting on her shoulders and he was warning her not to disappoint him.

Diane looked to Bea almost in question. "Me?" She shook her head and glanced at the guy with the guitar. "Oh, I can't leave my shift."

"Not even for half an hour?" Sheriff frowned, the question sounding more like _not even for this?_

And because she wanted to give this the best shot they could, Bea added that, "We could get lunch if you have to make it official. There are bagels in the car from the station."

"What, no donuts?" Diane quipped.

"Not today," Sheriff replied with wry. "Station's on a diet."

Diane snorted. "Look, I like your daughter, so I'll level with you, Sheriff. If you want to try to bring Sasha home, I won't stand in your way... but I'm not coming. I been down that road. I don't care to revisit." Diane ducked behind the counter to grab a spray bottle and a rag. "Now if you don't mind, those ledges on the windows outside are filthy, and Joe over there looks like he needs something to do."

Sheriff and Bea exchanged a look before Sheriff tapped his hand on the counter and said, "When I bring her home, will someone be there to let her back in the house?"

Diane stopped at that. She stopped walking around the counter to look at Sheriff as if he couldn't possibly be serious. When he only stared at her, she threw the rag over her shoulder and shrugged as she said, "She has a key. She knows the way in."

Bea wanted to appeal to her, to convince her that _she_ needed to be there. That Sasha needed to hear this from _her,_ not from a reporter she barely knows and the sheriff.

"Good talking to you this morning," Diane told Bea. "Always nice to have a good, heavy cry in the bathroom before I open the store. But next time, just so you know, Sunday and Monday are my days off." Her eyes flicked to Sheriff for a second. "Stop by the house sometime, maybe you can watch one of those serial killer documentaries with me. I'm sure your dad can get you the address."

"Yeah, me you and Sasha," Bea nodded, ignoring the unappreciative glare that Diane sent her way.

"Sure," She flatly patronized. "Whatever you say."

* * *

Around an hour and a half later, it was close to three o'clock and Bea was already exhausted. She was in that weird state caught between fatigue and a buzz from adrenaline and anxiety that left her feeling wired and restless. She sat in the passenger seat of her dad's car, parked under the room that Sasha was said to be staying in.

 _Said_ to be staying in, because so far Bea and Sheriff had seen little proof that Sasha was actually around. They went straight to the front desk where Sheriff was greeted with heavy resistance and attitude from the desk clerk, a defensive instinct that could only come from someone who regularly does shady business. This assumption was only reinforced when the clerk admitted that _yes_ , he had rented a room to Sasha. She paid money, he had a room, it's the nature of their business. And _no_ , he did _not_ realize she was sixteen. If he knew she was sixteen, would he have rented her the room?

Sheriff didn't even bother to respond to that. Later when they were alone, Sheriff told Bea that this motel was infamous for harboring wanted fugitives. Trouble was, as soon as law enforcement turned up, none of the staff knew anything about anything—mostly because fugitives paid double the rate that normal customers did, and the clerks got to keep the difference.

They decided to just head up to Sasha's room and knock right on the door. There was no answer. Assuming the worst, Sheriff used the key the clerk had given them to get in the room, and they shared a sigh of relief after finding it empty. Clothes and earphones were laying over the chair in the corner. There were some empty food containers, some used towels crumpled on the floor of the small bathroom, and a toothbrush and tube of toothpaste resting on the sink.

Sheriff feared that waiting in the room would spook Sasha. So they went back down stairs to wait in his car, and he closed the door behind them, taking care to make it look as though they'd never been there in the first place.

Bea was contemplating the morals of this city and its residents when Sheriff interrupted her.

"When's the last time you rode in the cruiser with me?" Sheriff asked, somehow able to pull a lighthearted memory out of a grim situation. Bea smiled as she turned away from the window.

"Pfft… sophomore year of high school, I think?" She looked at the dash and sighed. "I had that project for class."

"Yeah, a day in the life of a civil servant for Ms. Brown's third period Government class," Sheriff recalled as he fiddled with something on the radio. He stopped when he noticed Bea grinning at him, and he shrugged nonchalantly. "Or something like that, I don't know."

She hummed knowingly, unable to keep from smiling at him. She realized at that moment that her choosing him as the subject for her project meant more to him than she realized. At the time she felt like she was bothering him, but she could see now that she'd been very mistaken.

Sheriff cleared his throat. "How did you do on that project, anyways?"

"It was a long time ago." Bea shook her head.

"Oh," He nodded and looked out his window, up at the floor where Sasha's room was.

"But, uh…" Bea continued, noticing that he was disappointed by that response for some reason. "Actually, I got an A on that one."

It was the truth. She did well in her government class; she remembered because she did poorly in her economics class and Derek had done well in economics, and poorly in government. Derek did his civil servant project over his _mailman_. He did not do well.

Sheriff was grinning. "Yeah?"

Bea nodded. "Ms. Brown said she intended to use it as an example that next year." She rolled her eyes. "She had a crush on you, I think."

Her dad stiffened. "Okay, let's change the subject now."

Bea laughed. "Fine, fine."

There was a moment of awkward silence as neither of them could think of something to talk about.

"You know…" Bea started. "Ms. Brown never married, and—"

Sheriff was suddenly opening his door. "She's here," He said, and Bea looked over to see Sasha walking across the parking lot with her hood up. She hadn't noticed the cruiser yet, and she was walking with her hands in the pockets of her jacket at a quick pace.

It was drizzling rain when Bea stepped out of the car. The air was cool and she shivered in it before she exchanged a look with her dad, who sent her a reassuring nod.

She took the lead. "Sasha," she called out, stopping the young girl dead in her tracks.

Sasha turned around. She frowned in confusion when she saw Bea, and her face completely changed to realization and annoyance when she saw Bea's dad.

"You've _got_ to be joking," Sasha fumed, dropping her hands from her pockets.

"Sasha, wait!"

"No!" She was headed determinedly to the stairs. "Go away!"

"Sasha!" Bea hurried across the parking lot in pursuit of the girl, who was taking the stairs two at a time. "I saw the pole!"

Sasha stopped to turn around and look at Bea in confusion. "What?"

"The pole at the bridge," she said, watching Sasha shake her head dumbly. "I saw what you wrote there."

"I didn't write anything on any stupid pole!" Sasha shouted. "Is that what this is about?"

Bea wanted to press the issue, but her dad was _right_ there. She would be lucky to get away from this without him grilling her about this afterward. "We just want to talk," Bea told Sasha, who was now rushing up the stairs again.

"Bullshit!" She yelled as she went. " _He's_ not here to talk!"

"Who? My dad?"

"The Sheriff!" Sasha snapped back. "That's who he is."

Bea stopped climbing the stairs to look up at Sasha, who had turned to glare down at her.

"Not your _dad_ ," Sasha continued. She pushed wet hair out of her face where it stuck from the rain. "The freaking Sheriff."

"He can be both," Bea tried.

Sasha rolled her eyes with a snort. "Not in uniform, he can't."

"You're right," Sheriff said from the ground below. They both turned to look at him, and Bea wanted to wave at him to shut the hell up. Sasha just stared. "I'm not here to talk. I'm here to take you home."

"Well you're wasting your time, Sheriff!" yelled Sasha. "I'm not _welcome_ at home!"

"Your sister was just mad," Bea reasoned. "She didn't mean it. She was trying to bring you home, and... and things just got heated! She said things she didn't mean. Both of you did."

"You have no idea what's really going on here, do you?" Sasha snorted. Bea could only look back at her, and Sasha eventually shook her head. "Look, you're nice and all, but I'm really not worth your time."

"That's not true!" Bea asserted.

"Sasha, don't make me ask you to come down here," Sheriff called. The girl took another exaggerated step before settling on the stairs with her head hung in defeat, her shoulders drawn tightly by her ears.

Bea backed up to make way as Sasha suddenly pushed past her to jog down the steps. She followed quickly after her and watched as Sasha strode out to meet her dad in the parking lot.

They stopped and no one said anything right away. They just stood there. Sasha finally put her hands out. "Well?"

"I heard you and your sister had an argument," Sheriff began. Sasha looked away in pain at the memory and shook her head. "Let's talk about that."

"It wasn't an _argument_ ," blurted Sasha, her chest heaving with sorrow. "I was confessing."

"Confessing?" Bea frowned.

Sasha swiped at her cheeks and growled loudly, a culmination of thoughts and emotions that was impossible for Bea to decipher. "God!" Sasha breathed. "This is humiliating!"

"Let's all just take a breath," Sheriff suggested, making calming motions with his hands. "Are you hungry?" He pointed at the cruiser. "Do you want to go get a late lunch?"

"No, I—" Sasha clutched her head in her hands and bent over to take a calming breath. Bea looked at her dad, confused and alarmed, and he just looked back at her like he was taking it all in stride. Like he did this every day.

"I dropped out of school."

Too stunned to respond, Bea just stared at Sasha. This is _not_ what she was expecting to hear.

Sasha shifted on her feet and hugged herself. "Just before the end of last semester."

"Why?" asked Sheriff.

"Because, I was failing all my classes anyways?" It came out more as a question than a statement, and Sasha restlessly shifted again. She looked to the street and shook her head. "I've been failing my classes for years. My GPA is basically nonexistent. And all I do at home is piss off Diane, and she works so hard, I just… then I did something..."

"Let us help you," Bea offered. Sasha looked at her curiously for a moment. Just a moment. Then she thought of something, and her face fell, and she looked away. She looked unreachable. "Please."

"Let's start with getting you home—"

"No!" Sasha fiercely spat, turning on the Sheriff. "I'm not going back there! You can't make me!"

"Diane wants you to come home!" Bea insisted.

"Did she say that?" Sasha challenged. "Did she say _those_ words?"

She hadn't, in fact. Bea didn't know what to say.

"The simple fact is, you don't have a choice," Sheriff declared. Sasha looked panicked but Sheriff stepped forward and Sasha didn't try to bolt, to Bea's great surprise. "You're sixteen. In fact, you never should've been able to rent a room at all."

"I have money," Sasha revealed. "So if that's the problem then don't worry—"

"How did you get the money?" Sheriff wanted to know.

"I have a job." Sasha shrugged and looked between them. "At the movie rental store. I work there a couple nights a week. I have money."

"Well that's not the issue anyways," Sheriff sighed. "Minors can't rent out their own rooms. You have to be eighteen."

"I… I might have used Diane's name."

"We know that," Sheriff assured her. "And management knows now, too."

Sasha threw her hands up as she realized what that meant. "I can't believe this!"

"So you may not want to go home, but you can't stay here anymore," Sheriff continued.

"Where am I supposed to go now?" Sasha cried, this time directly to Bea, as though it was all her fault. " _Where am I supposed to go?"_

"We're taking you home," said Sheriff.

Sasha was on the verge of tears. She looked distraught.

"Unless there's a reason you can't be home?" Sheriff gently asked, and took a step forward. "Sasha, we're stopping by the station first to drop off Bea. So if you have something you want to talk to me about… now is the time."

Sasha looked at Sheriff, then at Bea.

"Is there?" Bea asked. "My dad, you can trust him. He's one of the good ones."

Sasha shook her head. "No one's touching me in my no-no place, if that's what you're suggesting," She casually guaranteed, sounding every part of the jaded girl, and Bea felt sad for whatever happened to the teen that made her feel unworthy of her own home and so very cynical. "And I throw things at Diane just as often as she throws them at me, so don't worry about abuse either."

"We're going to have a talk," Sheriff suddenly decided. "Just you and me, at the station."

Sasha looked like she was already dreading it. "Fine," she spat. "Let's _talk_."

Bea watched, sadly, feeling that the situation was far from resolved as Sasha let Sheriff lead her by the shoulder to the cruiser like a criminal being carted off to prison.

* * *

Bea checked the time again. It had been over an hour since Sasha and her dad disappeared into the interrogation room, and Bea's stomach rumbled irritably. She chewed anxiously at her thumbnail.

"You waiting on your dad?"

She looked up and saw Parrish raising an eyebrow at her. Bea scooted over on the bench, an unspoken invitation for him to sit. Parrish accepted and Bea sighed and looked over her shoulder at the closed interrogation room.

"I hate this," she muttered. "I hate not knowing what they're saying."

"It's hard for you," Parrish realized with a certainty that annoyed her. Bea glared at his face and Parrish continued, unperturbed. "You're really just that nosy, aren't you?"

"Nosy?" She shook her head. "No, invested."

Parrish's confident expression faltered. Bea sighed again and grunted as she stood up to pace.

"You know what would help?" She rambled. "A drink, that's what would help. I'm too... _jittery_."

"Like father like daughter," Parrish muttered. He sighed to himself and gestured vaguely with his hand at Bea. "What about food? Have you eaten?"

"I'm not hungry." Even as she said it, her stomach rumbled irritably again. "Shut up."

"Excuse me?"

"Not you," She rolled her eyes. "My stomach is—" She broke off, looking at him guiltily. " _Fine_ , my stomach is just fine."

"You're hungry."

"I've got indigestion," she lied.

"You know, there are more graceful ways to say no to food than that."

"Don't you have a case to be working on? Paperwork to file?"

"I'm just curious what's been keeping the Sheriff so occupied all day," Parrish admitted, his arms stretched out across the back of the bench. "Whatever it is must be pretty important, because I had to transport a prisoner today. I _never_ have to transport prisoners. That's usually your dad's job. He takes it pretty seriously."

"It makes him feel like a cowboy rounding up the felons," Bea joked, dodging the question.

Parrish snorted dryly at that. "Well? Don't you think talking about it would help?"

She gasped and snapped her fingers. Pointing at him, she smiled. "You're right."

"I am?" He looked to the side uncertainly. "Oh."

Bea pulled her phone out of her pocket and went to the lobby, leaving Parrish dumbfound and confused as she stepped outside to call her boss.

"Tell me you've been working those sources like we discussed," Cooper drawled as soon as he answered the phone.

"I've got a lead," She announced.

There was a pause, and Bea went to kick at a rock in the garden by the entrance as she let him process the news. "…A _lead_ , Stilinski?"

"I think. Sort of. I just have this feeling about this girl, Cooper. She ran away from home. Her—" Her name was scratched in the pole. "She wouldn't tell me the details but I think something bad happened. She feels… guilty about something."

"How can you tell?"

"I can just tell." Bea frowned. "Trust me. She's on the verge of something."

"Well have you warned the police?"

"I'm at the station now, my dad has her in the interrogation room."

"Interrogation?" Cooper balked. "Good god!"

"Oh, that's just what it's called, relax. He's not _interrogating_ her; he's trying to help her. She's kind of… overwhelmed right now, and a little unapproachable."

"That's good work, Stilinski," He unexpectedly told her. "Honestly. I hope you caught it in time."

"Me too," she muttered. The door of the station opened, and she turned to see her dad leading Sasha outside. "Gotta go."

She hung up before Cooper could reply. Sasha looked wrecked. Her nose was red and her eyes were swollen, and she couldn't look anyone in the eye. Her dad seemed concerned.

"I'm going to take her home now," Sheriff told Bea. "You should go home too."

"Sasha?"

The girl wouldn't even turn around. Bea frowned at that. "Let's just get out of here," Sasha grumbled. "I'm tired."

Sheriff waved lightly to Bea, who watched helplessly as he took Sasha by the shoulder and walked her back to his cruiser. She waited until Sasha was safely in the passenger seat before she seized the moment.

She ran to her dad and caught him near the back of the car. "What did she say?" She asked.

"I can't say that," Sheriff told her. "You know I can't say that."

"Just… tell me, is she okay?" Bea implored.

Sheriff looked uncertain and pained. "I… I don't think so," He conceded. "She's been through a lot."

"But is she… I mean… do you think she'll…" She left the question hanging.

Her dad shook his head tiredly. "I don't know. I'm going to have one of my guys patrol her neighborhood tonight. We'll be close."

That was a bit of a relief. Bea nodded and Sheriff looked inexplicably sad.

"It's all I can do for now," He told her. "It's the best I can do."

"I don't think she wants to, for what it's worth," Bea told him. "But… look, I wasn't going to say anything, but I have to."

Putting her shoulders back, she drew in a deep breath. She pulled her phone out, and showed her dad the picture. "See?"

"What is this?" He squinted at the phone and held it to get a closer look. Angered, he said, "Bea! Is this that pole on the bridge?"

"It's her name!" She cried, pointing at Sasha's name. "It's her name!"

"That's what you meant, wasn't it?" He unhappily realized. "You went out there after I told you not to, and you found her name, and you asked her about it this afternoon when you saw her at the motel. Right?"

"She had no idea what I was talking about," Bea lowly revealed. She took a step forward. "Dad—"

"This is unbelievable. Do you know that? You're unbelievable. I _told_ you—" He looked back at the station and stepped closer to keep his voice low. "I _told_ you not to go on that bridge, and you did it anyway. I heard what happened to those patrolmen. Was that you?"

"No," said Bea. Which was the truth, of course. Technically it was Peter. Not her.

Sheriff stared at her for a long time and eventually shook his head with a helpless shrug. "I don't believe you," He said. "I just—you know what?" He stepped around her to go to his door. "You and I will talk later. Tomorrow. I can't deal with this right now."

* * *

And she sat in her room now, much, much later, having just heard something break in the kitchen. Stiles was fast asleep in his room. She knew who it was.

Bea pushed out of her chair and padded out of her bedroom in an almost surreal daze, like she knew what was coming even before she got to the kitchen. This was one of those moments in life when everything came together, one of those rare moments when you knew everything that was going to happen before it did, and all you could do was sit there, powerless, and watch it play out.

Her dad was standing over the sink in his pajamas. His hands gripped the counter and his head was hung. He looked tense, and Bea just watched him as she realized her fears were correct. Sheriff shook his head and turned around. When he saw Bea standing there he jumped with a gasp.

"Bea!" Startled, he looked away and quickly tried to rearrange his face. But it was too late. Bea saw the darkness in his eyes, the deep flowing regret, and she knew. "What are you doing—up…" He trailed off, seeing in her eyes what she saw in his, and silence stretched between them. He didn't even try to deny it. Sheriff drew his chin up and frowned sadly at her.

Bea's throat strained painfully. "Do you believe me now?" she asked, her voice cold.

"You saw what I saw, Bea." Their gazes locked and Bea couldn't believe her ears when he added, "I mean, you saw her at the motel. You heard what she said!" He softened his tone to be gentler as he finished. "That girl was miserable."

"No!" Bea insisted. She shook her head vehemently. "She was _angry,_ she wasn't… she wouldn't… It doesn't make sense!"

Behind her, Stiles crept out of the hallway, his hair ruffled from sleep. He kept his distance and frowned as he listened to Sheriff continue to disagree with Bea. "Exactly, Bea, exactly! She was angry and hurt, and God knows what! Who _knows_ why people do these things! You'll drive yourself crazy trying to figure out why!" He shook his head knowingly. "No reason would be good enough."

Bea took a pleading step forward. "You're not hearing me—"

"I am!" Sheriff almost shouted. "I hear every word! You think I haven't heard the same thing from families since this thing started? Bea, you cared about her. No one ever wants to believe that someone they care about is capable of ending their own life! It's tragic. It's not fair. But it's _real_ , and it happened."

For a long moment, Bea didn't say anything. She let his words wash over her and looked at how passionately he believed what he said. She knew it was pointless, but she quietly said, "You don't believe me."

His eyes flashed. "It's not a matter of believing—"

"You know what?" Bea shook her head hard. "As sick in the head as mom was, she at least listened to what I had to say! She would never dismiss me out of hand like this."

It was like she smacked him across the face, hard. Sheriff stepped back to lean against the counter and looked at his daughter, offended, hurt. Speechless. His lips moved like he wanted to say something, but no words came out.

Bea looked down, her chest heavy.

"I believe you."

Small and matter of fact, Stiles' voice was steady. Bea couldn't find an appropriate response and so she simply stared at her brother, who looked absolutely sure of himself as he nodded.

"I don't even know what it is, but I'll believe you, whatever you think."

He didn't make a move to her, and she didn't make a move to him. She was stricken at that declaration from her brother, so simple, and yet it was everything. It was just what she needed to hear. He was listening.

Just as quickly as it came, the feeling of relief was gone. She couldn't tell _him_. Stiles didn't know about the supernatural! He could never know! Her dad knew, and still, he didn't believe her. Stiles was willing to listen, and yet she could never tell him…

It wasn't fair. Sasha was dead. Had there been a way to prevent it? She should've done something differently.

"You kids should get back to bed," muttered Sheriff. Bea saw that there was a bottle of whiskey on the counter by the sink. On a hunch, she turned to look at the wall of the kitchen, and saw a faint, wet splatter, and shattered glass on the floor.

She could picture it in her head. Sheriff getting the call and coming to get a drink. Feeling overwhelmed by being unable to prevent yet another suicide, he threw the tumbler of whiskey at the wall out of sheer frustration and helplessness.

She wanted to throttle him for being so stubborn. Instead, she went to grab the bottle of whiskey and Stiles looked on in disbelief.

"Really?" He gawked. "Freaking _really?"_

"Don't," Bea told him. Sheriff watched as she took a long drink from the whiskey, and Stiles scoffed bitterly and disappeared down the hall.

For a moment Sheriff looked consoled to see someone processing the news in the same way he did. He must be so used to hearing Stiles chide him for turning to the bottle at times like this… He sighed heavily and went to sink into a chair at the kitchen table.

"I should get ready for work," he thought aloud.

What he didn't yet realize was that Bea had already snuck out the back door, taking the whiskey with her. He turned at the sound of the door clanging shut. Tired and unable to argue with anyone or anything, he went to make a pot of coffee.

* * *

 _(A/N): Thank you so, so much for the reviews last chapter! I like that you guys are asking questions already. They'll be answered soon enough, don't worry._

 _Please, please - leave another **review!** _


	9. Chapter 9

**March 2001**

 **Beacon Hills, CA**

 **The Hales' Vault**

"School project," Bea giggled with a gasp, as though it was the funniest thing she'd ever heard. "We told them we were doing a project! And I'm in a hidden underground vault! Under the _high_ school! Stiles would crap his pants."

Derek continued to rummage through the cabinet in the corner. "My family is so weird," He muttered. "What does anyone want to keep a cactus locked away in a cabinet for?"

"Decoration?" Bea lamely suggested. "It's not like it needs to be watered or anything."

"We don't _decorate_ ," Derek glowered with a roll of his eyes. "It must be some kind of poison or something."

Bea flipped pushed up the brown, dusty fedora on her head that she'd stolen off the manikin in the corner. "And I suppose this hat is actually a weapon? It makes me feel like Indiana Jones." She turned to pretend to gaze off into the distance pensively. "Fortune and glory, kid," she quoted. "Fortune and glory."

He glanced over his shoulder at her. "Careful with that. My three times great grandfather was wearing that when he was assassinated."

She knocked it off her head with a disgusted cry and Derek threw his arms up.

"Bea!" He yelled as he climbed to his feet and stalked over to pluck it from the ground. "I said to be careful with it!"

"It's got dead guy guts on it!" She squealed, shaking her hands out. "It's probably cursed!"

"It's not got _guts_ , it's just really valuable," Derek scowled. "It was a gift from some famous general or something."

"Well, still!" Bea gave a shudder and shook her head. "Next time I'm wearing your dead grandpa's clothes, warn me!"

"Maybe if you would just _help_ _me search_ instead of playing dress up…" Derek muttered as he went to bend down in front of a safe. He tilted his head and listened closely as he spun around the knob.

Bea huffed testily and knelt beside him. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to break into this safe."

"Isn't a safe a little… I don't know, obvious?" She wondered with a critical frown.

Derek stopped fiddling with the safe to turn around and return her critical look. "Obvious?"

"Well, yeah," she shrugged. "In Indiana Jones, when they were searching for the Holy Grail, Donovan went for the wrong goblet just because it was pretty, and he assumed the Holy Grail _had_ to be pretty—but it wasn't, it was modest and plain, but Donovan died because he chose the wrong one. Sometimes the obvious choice is the wrong choice."

Derek stared at her.

Self-conscious, she shifted and shrugged at him. "What?"

"What are you saying?" He asked.

She sighed. "Never mind."

Slowly, Derek turned away from the safe and stood to cast his eyes about the vast, dark underground lair. "So basically you're saying the bottle could be anywhere."

Bea glanced away. "Basically."

He sighed loudly. "Well that's not helpful at all!"

"It could still be in the safe," she lamely offered. "I'm just saying that's a little cliché. Also who's to say it's not in any of the other fifty safes down here?"

"Yeah, yeah," He waved her off. "I get it now."

She scratched awkwardly at her head. "Well… we could still go to the movies. It's not too late."

"So you can go home and write in your diary that this was a bust?" He bitterly pointed out with a glare. "No way."

"Oh, my god," she groaned, as Derek stepped around her to go try and open a heavy looking trunk. "It's been a week already, would you let the diary go?"

"You literally wrote down my family's biggest secret and left it lying on your desk in the middle of your unlocked bedroom!" Derek pulled open the lid of the trunk and reached inside, moving a blanket and rolled up parchment to the side. "You wrote it down, Bea. _Never_ write it down."

"I got it, okay?" She snapped. "I tore the pages out and burned them anyways, so don't worry, your secret is safe."

He huffed and let the trunk close with a thud. "You're no better than the hunters, you know that? Writing secrets down—what if the president decided to write down the nuclear codes and left it lying around in his office?"

"Then we would be screwed and a nuclear bomb would blast us all to smithereens soon anyways," Bea paused. "Wait a minute. What do you mean _hunters?"_

Derek's eyes widened. "Oh, uh…" He stood up and turned his back to her, pretending to be interested in a box on a shelf. Derek pulled the box down and lifted the lid, peering at the intricate silver dagger inside with faux interest. "Just the Argents."

"Who are they?" Bea pushed.

Derek sighed loudly. "There's no point in lying to you. Knowing you, you'll just march straight up to mom and ask her, and then I'll get in trouble. _Again_. So… They're werewolf hunters," He grudgingly admitted.

"If you're going to get in trouble you don't have to tell me," Bea muttered. "I'm not a jerk, you know."

Derek looked guilty. "No, it's my fault. I said it. I shouldn't have, but I did, and now you know."

Bea watched him place the box back onto the shelf and resisted the urge to point out that _no_ , she didn't know about anything, she only knew a name, and a name alone meant nothing.

"They… hunt werewolves?" She asked, unable to contain her curiosity. "Why?"

They moved deeper into the vault, and Derek came to a stop in front of a large display case that held multiple boxes and trinkets. He ran his finger over the glass protecting one trinket; something that Bea remembered was called a triskelion.

"Because they're afraid of what we can do," He quietly admitted. "They think they need to protect people from us."

"That's not their job." Bea raised an eyebrow. "There's already a system in place to protect people. It's called the police."

"The police don't know about us," He reminded, like he shouldn't even have to, and Bea rolled her eyes.

"Doesn't mean that they wouldn't come running the second someone called for help."

"The hunters would argue that you can't protect yourself against something you don't understand."

"That's not true. We're not helpless."

"We?"

She looked away. "You know what I mean."

Derek looked away too. "Yeah," he quietly muttered. "I know what you mean. And you're wrong. I hate to ever have to say that the hunters are right about anything, but this… this they got right."

"So you're saying you're a danger to people?"

Derek was getting angry. "No, I'm saying… I'm saying we don't mean to be but if I said we weren't capable of hurting someone then that would be a lie!"

"Oh, I see. Then by all means, let's gather pitch forks and torches and chase you out of town."

"That's not what I mean either," He grumbled.

"What _do_ you mean?" She tilted her head.

"I mean, Bea, my family—we're good, but not everyone like us is… _like_ us, okay?"

"Okay…" Bea relented, finding it hard to swallow this news. "Well, are you the rule? Or are you the exception?"

"What?"

"Do most werewolves live like your family does? Or do they want to hurt innocent people?"

"It's not that simple." Derek covered his face in frustration. "This would take all night to explain."

Bea took a long moment of reflection, and Derek misread her silence as judgment. He shuttered his eyes against her and turned away almost in shame, as though he couldn't blame her for thinking bad things about him after what he just said, and Bea cleared her throat against the irritation at seeing that.

"Humans are not defenseless. And we're not innocent. There are good ones, like my dad, like my mom, but there are bad people too—like the criminals my dad has to lock away. There are systems in place, Derek."

"You can't protect yourselves against something you don't understand," Derek said again, quietly this time.

"It's not that complicated to understand, Derek," Bea said with a roll of her eyes. "It's instinct. Like the food chain we talked about in class, remember? Predators and prey."

"Humans are prey to werewolves," Derek informed her, as though she maybe hadn't realized it.

"Then you see my point." Bea shrugged. "We're prey to lots of things and we get by okay. Poisonous snakes and mountain lions, bears and wolves and sharks—"

"Sharks?" Derek mocked, with an eyebrow raised.

"Yeah," she said. "Sharks."

He sighed loudly. "But you can't heal like we can. It's not the same."

"What do you mean?" She frowned.

"If a snake bites us or a bear attacks us, it wouldn't be as big of a deal because we can heal."

Bea stared at him blankly, speaking slowly. "Well… we can heal too, you know—doctors can treat a lot more now and—"

" _No_ ," he broke off and closed his eyes to gather his patience. "Look."

He passed her to go back to the box on the shelf from before. Picking it up and lifting the lid, Derek pulled out the beautiful silver dagger and held it up in the light, letting it gleam to show its sharpness.

"Watch," he instructed.

"What are you doing?" Bea panicked and came closer with her hand up. "You're not going to—"

Derek pressed the blade of the dagger into his palm and hissed. Bea exclaimed loudly and jumped to seize the weapon, but Derek spun out of her reach and held his hand out. "Wait! Stop. Watch!"

"You're an idiot!" She cried. "You're so _stupid_ —oh my god, you're _bleeding_ , Derek! What are you… trying… to... to…"

Right in front of her eyes, the blood that trickled from his palm down to his wrist that cut a fast path down to his elbow suddenly stopped. And as if by magic, it retracted, retracing its path, not just closing the wound but _crawling back into it_ as though someone hit the rewind button.

Bea let out a surprised scream and clapped a hand over her mouth to silence herself.

"It's okay!" Derek hurriedly explained. He turned his palm up so she could see it better. "See? It's fine."

He let her take his hand between hers and waited patiently while she poked and prodded at his palm in wonder.

"You're like… like a superhero," She breathed. "Like the Wolverine or something."

Derek swelled with obvious pride and tried to play it off as he withdrew his hand. "It's not all that," He shrugged. "It's just something we can do. But that's what I meant when I said it's not the same."

Bea realized then what he'd been trying to get at the whole time. "So… you can heal… from anything?"

He nodded. "Unless it's poisoned with wolfsbane."

She pressed her hands to her chin and couldn't look away from his hand, even as he reached over to place the dagger back into its display case and return it to its rightful place on the shelf. "Your mom didn't mention _that_ when she gave me the talk," Bea muttered.

Derek gestured for her to follow him deeper into the vault, over to where there was a large table with a map of Beacon Hills spread across it. Bea had already examined the map and noted that there were places marked on it that didn't exist, and Derek had merely smiled mischievously at her and pointed out that technically their vault didn't officially exist either.

Bea's head swam with all the new information, all the new possibilities, and as she settled beside him in a seat at the table, Derek studied her carefully.

"What are you thinking?"

"Just…" she shook her head. "Thinking about the possibilities."

"Of what?"

"The experiments we could do," Bea said with note of excitement in her voice. "You can heal, Derek. From anything!"

"Just about," He easily agreed, lounging in the chair like a king at his throne. "What kind of experiments?"

Bea's eyes strayed behind him, and locked on something over his shoulder. Slowly, she lifted her finger to point behind him.

Derek looked at her finger and looked back. "Huh," He said. "Would you look at that? You were right. The safe was too obvious."

"You have a wine rack! Derek!" She gestured widely at it. "Have you never noticed it before?"

"I forgot," He shrugged. "But the good news is we found it!"

She shook her head wryly. "Idiot."

He slid out of his chair and went to look at the bottles that stuck out of the rack. "What do you say, red or white?"

"Both, obviously," Bea easily decided, and Derek laughed at that.

"God, I'm glad we're friends."

Bea beamed and Derek carried back two bottles and set it on the map. They stared at them and Derek took the moment to read the labels aloud—in perfectly pronounced Spanish, and Bea blinked rapidly. Derek caught sight of her expression and looked pleased that he'd impressed her. "You... is there anything you can't do?" Bea wondered in a teasing manner.

"I hate reading Shakespeare," he admitted. "My mom told you how long it took me to learn to control my eyes, right?" At Bea's nod, Derek turned the bottle in his hand absently to look over the label again. "She got the best tutors she could find so I didn't miss out on anything. One of them was a professor at Berkeley who was born and raised in Mexico. He came to America and he was bitten by an alpha one night, and he heard about my mom and tracked her down. In exchange for introducing him to a pack who... accepts omegas like him, he agreed to tutor me."

"So he taught you Spanish?" Bea concluded. Derek shrugged. "Honestly I don't know why you would ever trade a private tutor from a university for music teachers who pastes pictures of broadway stars all over their classroom and makes you wear birthday hats."

Derek snorted. "It's not so bad," he said. "It let me meet you, right?"

Flattered, Bea nodded. "I hope you know you'll be teaching me how to speak Spanish."

Truthfully, they were stalling. They didn't really know what to do with the bottles, now that they sat in front of them.

"You want to know the real reason I took you down here?" Derek asked, his eyes on the bottle. Bea opened her mouth and he said, "Besides the fact that it's awesome."

"Uh… It would piss Peter off?"

He snorted. "No. I mean _yes_ , but that's not it either. It's because we—werewolves—aren't supposed to be able to get drunk. But this stuff down here, I mean, if we keep it locked away in the vault it has to be special, right? Rare. Maybe it'll work."

"Because you can heal?" Bea guessed. "You can't get drunk?"

He shrugged at her as he placed his hands around the neck of the bottle of white wine. "I guess."

"Uh, I think…" Bea started as Derek tried to twist at the cork. "Oh! Okay, I know this, hang on, just gotta…" She went over to the rack and started searching all around. "Look for a, it's like a screw but it's twisty." She waved a hand over her shoulder. "My mom calls them pig tails but I don't know. I've also seen my family use all kinds of things—even a shoelace once. Actually, that's probably a good idea, here—"

 _POP!_

Bea jumped and her head snapped up. Derek held the cork pinched between his fingers and shrugged at her wide eyes. "What?"

She scowled. "Show off."

Derek ignored her as he lifted the bottle to his lips and took a tentative taste. Immediately, he scrunched his face. "Ugh!"

"What? Let me try!" She took the bottle he passed and shook his head.

"That's disgusting! Why are we protecting that?"

The lukewarm liquid hit her tongue and it was all she could do not to immediately spit it out. With a scrunched face, she held it in her mouth, unsure of what to do with it, and looked at Derek. He cracked up at her expression and she shook her head at him and choked it down. "Bleh!"

"Give it back," He said. "Maybe it's better the second time."

"No, open the red," She suggested. "Maybe it's sweeter."

They carried on like that, and discovered they both preferred the red over the white, which was much more interesting and offered more of an adventure for them to try and place a name to its many flavors.

By the time most of the red was finished, Bea was a giggly mess. Derek, on the other hand, was disappointed and bored.

"What—what about a car crash?" Bea hiccupped.

"A little more tricky," Derek admitted with a sigh. "Depends on how bad it was I guess."

To express the severity, Bea made a blast noise with her mouth and spread her hands out. "Fire! And an explosion. You're trapped in the car because—because seatbelts and, science and stuff."

"Science and stuff," He muttered. "Well, fire is a weakness if we can't escape. We aren't indestructible."

"Too bad," she said sadly. "Okay, so wolfsbane and fire could kill you, but not badgers or heart attacks or falling off a building. Bullets?"

He dismissed it with a wave. "Eh, same as a blade. We can heal unless you… cut our heads off, or I guess with bullets, shoot our heads off?"

" _That_ would take a lot of bullets," Bea mused with wide eyes.

"And we're too fast for that anyways. Next." He tipped back the bottle and drained the red entirely of its contents, his face scrunched afterwards, and he exhaled in disgust and shook his head.

"Uhhhhhhh…" Bea blew a breath sloppily through her lips and tipped over her chair to stretch her arms out. "Lightning strike! _Whapaaahhh_."

"Actually," Derek hesitated. "I have no idea. We would have to be pretty strong. A kid… probably couldn't recover. Electricity is weird for us, we don't exactly understand it, but I know that hunters have used it against us."

"Wow," Bea blinked owlishly. "Hunters are creative."

"You're twelve, you're drunk, and you were able to think of it by yourself on the spot," Derek stated with a flat look. "Not _that_ creative."

She grinned and giggled lowly at that. "Oh, yeah. Good point."

"I don't get it," Derek complained. "I thought this would work!"

"Oh it _did_ ," Bea burped. "I feel… freak-y!"

Derek snorted at her and smacked her arm. "Yeah! But you're not a werewolf."

"Mmph, there's probably like… a… secret recipe hidden down here somewhere."

"No, we don't write things _down_ , remember? If there were a way, we'd have it bottled and hidden. Locked up, even. Not… in a _cook book_."

Bea laughed stupidly at that. "Cook book! Ravioli, ravioli, give me the formuoli!"

"God," Derek sighed. "You're wasted."

She threw her head back to let out a high-pitched laugh, and Derek rested his face in his hand. "And—and _Peter_ would be in a chef's hat on the front, with one of those m-mustaches—you know the ones. With the curled ends—ahooooo! Wolf's Boyardee!"

"It's almost nine o'clock," Derek noted, though Bea was paying little attention as she continued to howl and make puns about Peter being a chef. "I can't take you home like this… what are we supposed to do?"

"Let's call Peter," Bea suggested.

" _Why_ are you obsessed with Peter right now?" Derek growled.

Bea sputtered. "I'm not—I'm not _obsessed!_ I'm trying to fix this problem!"

"You've been talking about him for the past five minutes," Derek pointed out with a frown.

"It was a joke! Geez, you're being really… I don't know. But you're bumming me out. I was just trying to say that Peter could maybe…" Hiccup. "Tell us what to do?"

"Do you think your mom would suspect something if you stayed the night?"

"No," Bea shook her head. "I did that one other time remember?"

"That was planned, though," He sighed. "Your mom called my mom beforehand and everything."

"They're friends," Bea nodded.

"They're not." Derek rolled his eyes.

"What?" Bea piped, her head bouncing in offense. "Why? Did your mom say something about my mom?"

"My mom isn't friends with…"

"With humans?" Bea shook her head. "That's stupid."

"It's sensible—" Derek pinched his nose and stopped himself from talking further. "Why am I arguing with you right now? You're drunk."

"Only a little," Bea laughed, pinching her fingers together. "Like that much."

Derek stared at her for a long moment before he blinked and shook his head. "Do you think you can straighten yourself out long enough to ask your mom if you can stay the night?"

"Yes!" She chirped. "I'm—I'm—you can trust me."

"We didn't think this through," Derek muttered, going to help her stand so he could take her over to the landline nearby. "Come on, there's a phone in the basement upstairs."

Bea grabbed him by the shoulders and tried to hop on his back. "Piggy-back!"

Deciding that she probably couldn't walk even if he made her try, Derek relented and crouched down so she could climb properly onto his back. "Let's get this over with."

"YAAHH!" She cheered, thrusting a finger in front of them. "Away!"

"We're getting in so much trouble," Derek sighed, resigned and regretful.

They went out the entrance to the basement. Derek was vigilant in making sure that no one was around, and when they started towards the phone, Bea launched into her favorite song. She slid off his back when he tapped her leg and stumbled against the wall.

"Whoa," She giggled. "The floor is very tilty. Don't you think it's very tilty, Derek?"

"What's the number?" He asked her, and she hummed thoughtfully and pressed her shoe tentatively against the ground.

"I would say it's like a—like a seven out of ten. A seven tilty. Seven tilty scale."

Derek shook his head. "What? No, what's your _phone_ number, Bea?"

"Ohhh! It's—here—just hand the phone to me." She made to grab it herself and Derek held it out of reach. Bea made a noise of protest and stomped her foot, which caused her to stumble to the side. "Okay, okay, give me a minute."

He watched as she shook her head and jumped in place, shaking out her hands to psych herself up like an athlete about to go play an important game. Bea smacked her cheeks a couple of times. She put out her hand, which was only marginally steadier than before.

"I'm ready," She determined.

Derek felt resigned and handed the phone over, reasoning that no matter what they were likely going to get caught, so he might as well just get it over with.

Bea squinted down at the numbers as she punched them in. Derek waited patiently, and said nothing when she had to redial the first time, and only sighed the second time.

"Oh!" She gasped. "Okay, it's ringing. Okay! I can do this."

"Crap," Derek muttered. "We're so dead."

"Mom!" Bea exclaimed too loudly. Derek made motions for her to tone it down and Bea nodded. "Before you say anything, I'm not drunk—"

Derek smacked a hand over his face.

"Wha… Oh, Stiles?"

He gasped hopefully and smacked her arm.

"Oh, _Stiles!"_ Bea realized with a nod. "Heyyyy, bud. What's going on? Where's mom?..."

" _She's in the kitchen_ ," Answered the small voice of a child. " _Hold on_."

She burped a little and shook her head quickly. "No, no, that's okay, don't get her. Just, could you do me a favor? Could you tell her that I'm going to—stay the night at Derek's house tonight? Tell her—uh… tell her that…" She looked helplessly at Derek.

He shrugged urgently at her and she stumbled over her words for a few seconds before she blurted, "Tell her that I'm staying the night at Derek's house!"

Derek's eyes shut in defeat and he hung his head.

" _You're weird, Bea. I gotta go, Scott brought over a new game and he's almost to level three_."

"Okay!" She chirped. "Love you!"

" _Yeah, me too. Have fun with your_ _ **boyfriend**_ _. Bye."_

The line clicked, and Bea continued to hold the phone to her ear as she turned a stunned, disbelieving look to Derek. "It worked?" She gasped.

Derek was looking a little stricken as well, his face uncertain as he said, "Did he say—"

Bea threw her arms around him. The phone was still in her hand, so the whole thing flew off the desk and smacked into their legs. "It worked!" Bea cried happily. "I did it!" Derek grabbed the phone from her hand and quickly returned it to the desk, taking care to make sure it wasn't broken.

"Did he just call me your boyfriend?" Derek finally asked, looking almost afraid to hear the answer, and he stood back with a weary expression and his hands between them.

"I _know_ , right?" Bea rolled her eyes with an exaggerated shudder. "He's so _annoying_."

"We're not dating," Derek said, confused, and watched Bea as she moved around him to go spin a globe sitting beside a bookcase. "Did you tell him that?"

"He doesn't care! That's the thing." Bea batted at the globe to make it spin as fast as she could. "He's—" hiccup "—an idiot."

Derek hid a sigh of relief. "Just… so he knows."

"He's not even six years old yet, Derek. He barely knows how to tie his shoes."

* * *

Later that night, Derek sat in his room and thought about ways to make the wine work for him. As hard as Bea had been to put up with, it was clear that she was having the time of her life. Derek wanted that. He wanted to laugh at things that weren't funny and not know why, like Bea had been doing all night. He wanted… to feel _human_.

She was passed out on his bed. Her mouth was wide open and she snored like a trucker, and Derek was insanely jealous. Not of the snoring, but of her… natural reaction to things.

Being friends with her has made him hyperaware of how unnatural it was to have werewolf advantages. Sure, he had quick healing and that meant he never had to worry about getting hurt or getting a cold—but it also meant he had no excuse to miss out on school because he couldn't get sick, and his mom has always made it clear that the full moon is no excuse to miss out on an education. He'd had a perfect attendance record ever since he started at public school. Rain, snow or sunshine, he was at school.

Being a werewolf meant he was good at sports, but it also meant he had to hold himself back. Bea didn't have to worry about that—ever. She could put one hundred percent of herself into everything she did and if she failed, she could still feel satisfied knowing there was nothing she could've done differently.

Derek didn't have that. He had to constantly withhold part of himself because others wouldn't understand and it's not safe for people to know what he really is, and he gets it, but that doesn't make it _fair_.

He wanted to get drunk, to let loose, to feel… natural.

Even that, it seemed, was out of reach for him. And it always would be.

He hadn't even bothered to shut his bedroom door when they came home and he regretted it now, when Peter slammed two empty wine bottles down on the entertainment center in front of the television.

He stood with his arms crossed and blocked the show that played in the background. Peter didn't say anything. He just waited.

Derek looked at the empty wine bottles, unsurprised. He should've known Peter would follow them tonight. He should've known they'd get caught one way or another. This is how life his for him. No fun, no mischief—he couldn't even lie in this family because his mom, Peter and his sisters were all breathing lie detectors.

Peter stood there, stared, and waited.

Finally, Derek let out a sigh and rolled his eyes. "You found the wine."

"Need I remind you that you're _only_ twelve years old?" Peter asked, shaking his head with a frown. "And what the hell is _that_." He pointed at Bea, who was snoring even louder now, if that was possible.

Derek leaned forward and shook his head, resting his arms on his knees. "It didn't work anyways, so what's the big deal?"

"Derek!" Peter exclaimed. "She's human! It's—alcohol affects us differently, she's too young—"

"I know!" Derek stood. "I know it _affects us differently_ ," He mocked. "Because it doesn't work for us. Why do we even keep those if they don't work?"

" _Because_ —" Peter cut himself off and composed himself with a tight smile, looking at Derek. After taking a breath he said, "Because they're very valuable, Derek. Do you even want to know how much money you consumed tonight?"

"I don't care," Derek declared. He crossed his arms defiantly and Peter dropped his to glare at his nephew's impudence.

Peter's nostrils flared as he took a breath. "You're babysitting the twins tomorrow while your mother and I attend a meeting in Fresno."

Derek stiffened in protest, his mouth opening wide as Peter turned to leave.

"And _you_ get to explain to Talia why forty thousand dollars worth of wine went down the drain tonight."

Derek blanched and his mouth hung open dumbly as he stared at the open doorway and slowly turned his gaze back to the empty bottles of wine. From the bed, Bea choked on her breath and sputtered in her sleep before she rolled over to settle back into a steady snore.

* * *

 **January 2012**

 **Beacon Hills, CA**

 **The Hales' Property**

Under the light of the moon, a woman pedaled along unsteadily on a bike. Her hair was a mess and she barely kept hold of the bottle in her hand. She muttered something incoherent and tossed her head to get her hair out of her eyes.

Bea knew the way to Derek's house like the back of her hand. She'd ridden this same route on this same bike countless times before. Despite the fact that many years had passed and she had somewhat outgrown the bike, she still knew exactly where to go—which holes to dodge and when to move to the side of the road because cars were notoriously reckless on the curve by the woods.

She went over her rehearsed, prepared speech, just to make sure there were no kinks.

"Do you know why I'm here, Derek?" She slurred. "I'm here because—because of today, because of what happened today." Bea sucked a short breath and tilted the bike slightly so it was upright and she wasn't in danger of falling out of the seat. "Because I have to yell at you because… it's… it's your fault that you weren't there. You know who was? Peter! He helped—but _you_ , you said no, and now a girl is dead, and if I had you there you could've told me when she was lying about… so many things, and we could've stopped her together, but you weren't. You…"

She came upon the hill to his house and looked up, expecting to see a towering manor cast a shadow that covered most of the front yard in blanketed darkness. Instead there was no house; only a pile of rubble that cast no more shadows than headstones did in a cemetery in the dusty light of the dawn.

Her jaw dropped. Bea forgot to balance herself and the bike tipped over, spattering her on the gravel in what used to be the driveway. The only thing she could grasp through the haze of her spinning, unfocused vision was the pile of rubble that was _supposed_ to be a house. She rolled out from under her bike, but her foot was caught in the chain.

She kicked, growing more panicked, more desperate to turn over to get another look, and she kicked until her shoe came off and her foot came free. Bea turned and clambered to her knees, but she fell over before she could even manage to get to her feet.

The decision to just stay lying in the grass wasn't a conscious one, but Bea had a good view of the house-cemetery and so she stayed where she was and tried to explain what she saw.

Then, like a horrible waking nightmare, she realized what she was looking at _was_ Derek's house. What was left of it, anyways. Nothing but a pile of wood, ash and wreckage, like a tragic, collapsed house of cards. If she squinted hard enough she thought she could actually _see_ headstones of his dead family members protruding amid the rubble of the house—and that's when she knew she was way too drunk to be seeing this.

She pulled out her phone and dialed. It rang three times before he answered. "Bea?"

"Shut up, Peter," She said, her voice slurring much worse than she realized. "What happened to your house?" Her eyes burned and she blinked fiercely to stay focused on the disaster in front of her.

"What? Wait—"

He was cut off as someone else grabbed the phone, and then a new voice came.

"Bea?" Derek spoke. "Bea, what's going on?"

She gasped at hearing his voice. "Derek!" She shook her head. "I—I'm so sorry! I'm s-sorry, I…"

Confused and alarmed, he said, "Bea? Where are you?"

"I—" She gasped in a shuddering breath "Derek!" She sobbed, her voice full of sorrow as she processed what she saw in front of her. "W-What do I do? What do I do? I don't know—h-how to fix it, what do I do?"

"Fix _what?"_ He sounded urgent, gripped with concern. "Where are you? I'll come find you, just tell me where you are!"

All she could focus on was the _wrongness_ of seeing what was once such a centric part of her childhood reduced to discarded debris—and knowing what happened here, what made it this way? It made it hurt even worse. She tried to express this to Derek, but the words just couldn't come out right.

Derek was still there, still trying. "You have to take a breath, Bea, I can't understand what you're trying to tell me."

"I—I can't fix it. I _want_ to fix it! _Please_ , Derek!" She squeezed her hair between her fingers and shook her head. "H-Help me fix it, h-help me… save them, I h-have to save her. She can't… she can't do it on her own, she _needed_ my help, she needed… I was just _trying_ to help and my dad wouldn't listen, and now it's too late!"

"Who?" Derek asked loudly because Bea had forgotten to hold the phone up to her ear. She lifted it off of her lap to speak into it more clearly.

"I know I wasn't there for you, and I'm _sorry_ , I'm _so_ sorry! _God_ —I can hardly— _look_ at this! It's just a mess, it's a big mess. I should've been there! I needed your help and I d-didn't… I didn't even _ask_ , because I thought you were… But she's my m—my... m-m… my m…" She couldn't even finish the word without a sob overtaking her voice. "I s-should've asked you, you could have helped— _please_ —Derek…"

The phone, at that point, had fallen out of her hands and lay in the grass behind her as she crawled over the yard. With one foot left bare to feel the cold frosty grass, Bea staggered up the hill and fell to her knees in front of the destroyed skeleton of the Hale house.

In her stupor it didn't even feel like a full five minutes had passed since she picked her way over the yard and into the rubble to try and lift a shard of scorched wall and replace it with shaking hands to the structure it had broken off of, when Derek was there suddenly, behind her, pulling her out of the wreckage and back to safety. She tried to reach around him and push her way back and Derek grabbed her by the waist and physically restrained her. "Enough!" He ordered, pulling her tighter into the security of his arms. "Bea, that's enough!"

"This is my fault," She babbled almost unintelligibly.

Derek let her pull away from him just enough to wave her arm loosely at the sky. He could only stare in disbelief as she continued.

"This is because of me, because _I_ didn't… I didn't _do_ anything. Do you know _that's_ my problem! I never _do_ anything, even if I see something is wrong! I just sit there! I just watch it all fall apart and I never… _do_ anything. Why do I do that?" She looked to Derek then, seeking an answer from him. "Why do I do that?"

"Do you really believe that?" Derek frowned. "You really believe that you had any control over what happened to my family? Over any of this? That _you_ could've done something to prevent the city from _finally_ knocking down what remained of _my_ family's house?"

Bea flinched. She blinked drearily against his logic and swayed, her hands hovering defensively by her chest. "N-No, you aren't listening," She tried.

"No _you_ aren't listening!" He corrected. Derek went to stand in front of his ruined house and pointed down at it. " _Look!_ Look at me!"

Sheepishly, Bea lifted her eyes to him.

"Do you see that? None of that has anything to do with you! That's…" He broke off with a sigh and his hand dropped back to his side. Derek stood straight and kept his back neatly turned to his house, as though he couldn't face it while he said what he said next. "The _Argents_ did that, not me. Not you. But they were only able to do so _because_ of me. Because of _my_ mistakes, and my actions."

Derek stopped to take a deep breath. He shook his head and geared up to continue. "You have no idea how long it's taken me to be able to say that out loud. So you aren't allowed to come back and just… _claim_ this. It's not your fault—it's not even your story—and it's _definitely_ not something you can fix."

He had effectively stunned Bea into silence. She gawked at him and the scene behind him, seeing that though both Derek and his home had been destroyed, they were finally… at _rest_ with what had happened. While the sight of the demolished Hale house traumatized her, it brought Derek some sort of… closure. In its own weird way, it was healing him, and Bea couldn't want to change something that might help. Not now, after so much time had passed. Even something as horrible as this.

"What are you doing here, anyways?" Derek asked, annoyed and burnt out from his emotional speech.

Bea was too slow to react when he grabbed her by the arm and dragged her back down the hill. "What's—I was…" She chortled wearily and looked away from him, seeing that he'd parked a grey vehicle in the gravel drive way. "I came to yell at you."

Derek gave her a harsh look.

"Well I'm not going to _now!"_ She defended. Bea pulled away from him and sloppily brushed her hand over her wrinkled clothes as they stood before her overturned bike and his clean silver vehicle. "Nice Toyota," She snorted.

Derek placed a critical eye on her, his arms crossed. His nose wrinkled slightly. "You're drunk."

"Is that a crime?" She grumbled, swaying on her feet. "I'm processing a—a death. I'm _grieving_."

He sighed in exasperation and pinched his nose.

Bea sniffed, her nose still thick from the break down she'd just experienced. Tired didn't even _begin_ to cover how she felt. She hid her face behind her hair and tried ineffectively to stave off the tears that continued burning her eyes.

"Come on," Derek grumbled. Bea watched as he stooped to retrieve her bike from the ground. When he started towards his vehicle, she stumbled behind him and watched as he opened his trunk to dump it inside.

"This isn't a jeep," She wondered aloud, trying to figure out what to call the thing. "It sort of looks like one though, like a… a jeep and a hummer had a baby."

"Your bike chain is broken," He told her, closing the trunk with a thud. "I'm giving you a ride home."

It wasn't a question, but Bea didn't budge as he rounded the side of his baby hummer hybrid. He got as far as climbing into the driver's seat before he realized she hadn't even attempted to follow.

Bea took a breath and turned on her heel. She stumbled when Derek appeared at her side to yank her towards the vehicle. She jerked out of his grasp. "Stop _doing_ that!"

"Where do you think you're going?" He demanded.

She took a moment to study him. His face had chiseled out with age, all sharp angles and shadows now, and the scruff on his jaw looked out of place—like Derek was playing dress up. And she hated the leather jacket he wore. "You've gotten _grabby_ ," she muttered.

"You're drunk," He said again, less as an accusation this time and more as a reason for his behavior, "and you're being unreasonable. How else am I supposed to help you?"

At that moment, she didn't want his help. Not if he was just going to yank her around and throw her back to the house she deliberately left. She'd rather stay _here_. "You know, when we were friends you would've offered me a piggy-back ride," she sniffed.

Derek blinked and looked stricken with pain at the memory she forced him to relive. He stared at her, looking betrayed and haunted, and for a second she thought he might just walk away leave her there, and she thought she might cry again.

Derek turned around and Bea gasped in a hurt breath. He crouched slightly and she went still, her breath catching. He held his hands out and turned his head. "Well?" He rumbled, his voice hard and short.

She choked out a disbelieving laugh. " _Really?"_ Bea clapped her hands in uncontained excitement, unable to form the _hell yeah_ that she wanted to on her drunken and uncooperative lips.

Derek caught her around the legs as she threw herself onto his back. Feeling very drunk and overjoyed, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and grinned.

"I missed you," she conceded.

Derek hiked her up higher on his back. "We're still friends," He told her. "But you've got to stop cuddling me or I'll throw you in the gravel."

She threw her head back and laughed as he carried her to the vehicle. This time, she didn't argue with him when he told her to get in.

* * *

Derek knew enough to not try and take Bea home, even after they made up. He instead decided to let her crash at his apartment. He listened to her cutting remarks about the state of the neighborhood he'd chosen and reassured her he wasn't living an abandoned building. Wisely, he chose not to add the _anymore_ out loud.

She didn't seem to fully believe him until the elevators opened and she caught her first glimpse of his new home.

A noise of amazement bubbled out of her as she stumbled into the spacious loft. "This is three times the size of my apartment in the city! How much do you pay in rent?"

"Rent?" Mocked a new voice.

Bea froze. Slowly, she turned and glared daggers at Peter, who was making his way down a spiral staircase and taking his sweet time about it.

"Hales don't pay rent," Peter informed her. "Derek _owns_ this building."

She looked to Derek in question, but he only watched her warily to see how she would react to Peter's presence. "Can you make him leave?" She hooked her thumb in Peter's direction.

"I'm sorry, but I thought _I_ was the one you called in your hour of need?" Peter pointed out as he came upon her.

"Ah!" barked Bea. "That's only because—because I don't know Derek's number anymore."

"It's seven in the morning and you reek of cheap booze," Peter said disparagingly, and raised an eyebrow at her. "Don't tell me you're an alcoholic now."

She shoved him in the chest to push him away. Though her push did nothing, Peter ambled off to circle her and stand next to Derek.

"You..." Bea glowered, annoyed that Peter was exactly the same after all this time. He _looked_ different—they all did—but she still felt that same burning desire to find just the right insult that would stun him into silence, like she always had. "I'm _onto_ you."

Peter's eyebrows rocketed and Derek's plummeted. They exchanged a look and traded expressions, and Bea would've laughed if she weren't in the middle of trying to accuse Peter of something.

"I'm sorry, did you say you're _onto_ me?" Peter scrunched his face at her.

"I know it was you!" She announced. "You were the one who scratched those names into the pole! And then you came to find me so you could confuse me!"

"That makes no sense," Derek pointed out.

"You weren't there," Bea hissed at Derek.

"Why would I do a thing like that?" Peter interrupted. "And why would I _tell_ you about it?"

"To _confuse_ me!" She insisted.

"If you're confused, it's not my fault," Peter smugly stated. He sauntered over to a table in front of a huge industrial window.

"How typical," she snarled. "Are you responsible for _anything_ , Peter?"

He didn't even deign to formulate a response to that, blinking slowly like a house cat.

"Sasha is dead," she informed him. "And that's _your_ fault."

Peter frowned at the news. Speaking slowly, he settled in a stool at the table and said, "Look, Bea, I'm sorry to hear about Sasha, but the only thing that proves is that you were _right_. And we should—"

"Of course I was right!" Bea shouted. "No one believes me, but I was right about that, and I'm right about you too!"

Peter stopped talking. He pursed his lips and turned to Derek. "Derek?" He gestured at Bea. "Care to weigh in?"

Derek looked tired and about three steps past finished with drunk-Bea. Tiredly, he held his hand out to her and said, "Whatever it is you think he's done, it can wait—"

"It can't!" She fiercely exclaimed, dodging out of his reach when he made to grab at her. " _Stop_ that! We already agreed you wouldn't do that!"

Derek pressed his hands to his face to gather his patience.

"All right, I can see why you would suspect I was the one to scratch the names in the pole. I can admit that from your perspective, it might look like I was trying to trick you if you didn't trust me. But I can't figure out how you could think that I want to kill some _random_ innocent teenagers?" Peter asked.

"You know what?" Bea seethed, feeling an old grudge bubble to the surface. "That's a good point. You wouldn't try to kill a _random_ innocent teenager, you're only interested in the ones Derek _dates_."

The room went dangerously quiet. Derek was taken aback by her direct attack, and Peter kept very still as he let her venomous words sink in. Bea was cackling with hateful energy and she waited to see how Peter would respond.

He took a breath. "Derek doesn't _date_ teenagers anymore."

Bea swelled with rage. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" She hissed.

Derek stepped between them before she could say something that would get her killed. "That's enough," he coldly decided.

Bea blinked at him. Seeing the way Derek looked at her with disapproval, she shifted and swayed a little. Bitterly, she laughed. "I don't know why I'm surprised to see you take _his_ side."

"Bea, you're drunk." He looked on steadily as she hiccupped and threw another dirty look to Peter's retreating form, watching him as he turned his back on them to peer broodingly out the window with his hands clasped behind his back. "You wouldn't have said _half_ of what you have if you weren't drunk."

"I—" She started. Bea grunted. "You… you're probably right," She sighed.

Some of the tension left Derek's shoulders, and he pointed over to the couch in the far corner of the loft. "Why don't you go over there and lay down?" He suggested.

"Yeah," she waved him off, already headed that way.

Derek sighed and fell into a stool at the table. He dropped his head in his hands and tried to let go of some of the pressure in his back. It didn't take long before Bea was snoring on the couches, and by that time the morning had long since broke. Light poured in from the windows and Peter cast a shadow over the table as he came to join Derek at the table.

"I remember the first night you two ever touched alcohol," Peter murmured.

Bea's barbed accusation from earlier still rang loudly in Derek's ears, and it left him wishing that Peter would just shut the hell up. He chose to ignore him instead of saying what was really on his mind.

"You discovered that alcohol doesn't work for us the same way it works for them. And Bea, well…" Peter snorted. "She's never had trouble getting alcohol to work for her."

The world's smallest grin cracked Derek's grumpy expression and he looked up and caught the way Peter was staring thoughtfully over at the couches. Surprisingly, Peter didn't look homicidal. He just looked contemplative.

In light of that, Derek risked asking what he was wondering. "Do you... think I'm doing the right thing? Not helping her. Is it a mistake?"

Peter was surprised that Derek asked him that. It was such an honest and vulnerable question, and it wasn't too often that they exposed their insecurities to each other, and rarer still that they sought advice on those matters. He considered it for another moment before he said, "Mistake? No. It's a choice. We all have to live with the choices we make."

A beat passed as the weight of those words took effect so soon after Bea so poignantly reminded the pair of them about Paige, and Peter's hand in her fate. _We all have to live with the choices we make_ , Peter had said. Derek couldn't deny the stark truth in that.

Derek, frustrated at the unsatisfying response, asked, "But is it the _wrong_ choice?"

Peter looked at him. "When has she ever _asked_ you for help?"

With a start, Derek realized that the answer was _never_. Before the night he came to bring back her notes, Bea had never asked Derek for his help with anything. In fact, she'd always done the exact opposite. She rejected his help if it ever came up. She'd always been intent on figuring things out herself, almost as though she felt like her problems were a burden on him.

Then she finally asked, and he'd said no. Derek studied Peter carefully before asking his next question. " _You_ helped her." Which had confused him greatly, considering that Peter and Bea obviously didn't get along and besides that, it wasn't in Peter's nature to help others.

It honestly made Derek feel guilty, like he should've never said no to Bea in the first place. Like he should've never left her open to accepting help from someone like Peter, who she had never trusted or really gotten along with.

Peter stood to return to staring out the window before he answered. "Sometimes we all need a little… push in the right direction."

And at that, Derek had to wonder if he was talking about Bea… or if he was talking about Derek. Interestingly, as often as Bea and Peter found themselves at each other's throat, they weren't dissimilar. They both tended to speak in code - especially when talking to each other or about each other.

Derek had forgotten how it felt to get caught in between them, trying to translate their veiled insults with little success. He sighed and resolved not to leave them alone. The world would never be ready for _that_ combination.

* * *

 _(A/N): Thank you for favoriting and following this story, and for leaving your thoughts in the reviews._

 _I'm glad you all seem to be enjoying this as much as I am!_


	10. Chapter 10

**April 2001**

 **Beacon Hills, CA**

 **The Stilinskis' House**

Bea laid on the spread of blankets in Stiles' room with a flashlight shining on the comic book in her hands. Stiles was close enough for his foot to rest on her leg, and he hunched over the issue that came before the one she read with a smaller light in his hand. Over them hung an expanse of sheets and blankets.

They were competing to see who could stay awake the longest. Already, Stiles was yawning, and it was hardly past midnight. The lego set she'd bought him sat on his desk. For the most part the base was finished; all that was left were some finishing touches. Bea helped him put it together and it had taken most of the night.

Stiles grunted out a laugh. Bea looked over and saw him pull the comic book closer so he could squint at a small detail in one part of the scene he read. "Oh, you finally got to that part, huh?" She grinned.

"He had to make his underwear out of his web!" Stiles giggled. "And now it's stuck on and he can't go pee. That's hilarious!"

"I knew you'd like that," She softly said, watching her little brother turn back a page so he could relive the scene. "So I guess the day turned out pretty good, right?"

The comic book in his hands drooped as he remembered what had gone wrong that morning. Stiles lifted the book to hide his face and angled away from Bea. "Whatever."

That Stiles was so young and still able to feel the sting of what happened meant Claudia must have been losing her grip a lot more often in front of him than Bea realized. She did her best to protect him from the worst of it, but today it had been unavoidable and hard to explain away.

Claudia pulled her disappearing act. Again. It started last month. It didn't happen every day, and she always managed to reappear just in time for Noah to get home—which led Bea to the unpleasant conclusion that it wasn't completely unintentional.

Bea hadn't worked out a way to predict when it would happen yet. Normally she was able to work around it, to improvise ways to salvage whatever responsibilities Claudia disappeared from, but today… tomorrow was Stiles' birthday. It fell on a Sunday so this tear their mom decided it would be better to celebrate it on the Saturday before, that way they'd be able to go do something special. He'd already been dejected and pouty because their dad had to work, and then… then their mom bailed too.

Bea wished she could claim that Claudia didn't know; that she didn't know what day it was when she went off to do whatever it was she did wherever it was she did it instead of taking Stiles to the spring festival downtown like she'd said… but that wouldn't make him feel better. If she didn't know what day it was that meant she forgot, and how would that help anything? How would that convince young, six year old Stiles that their mom still cared?

It could've been worse, she supposed. She could've had one of her fits and yelled at Stiles for something he didn't do again. Like last weekend, when she shouted at Stiles to stop hiding her shoes. That's another new development. Claudia was starting to place blame on Stiles for things, things that don't make sense.

Bea was getting a really bad feeling. She knew that sooner rather than later, she needed to figure out what was going on with her mother, and put a stop to it. She wasn't prepared to drag her dad into the mix just yet. She could admit that she was scared of what would happen when he found out. Something told her whatever he did, it wouldn't be good.

And besides, Bea had it covered.

…Basically. More or less. She pulled together a good birthday for Stiles, anyways, and at the end of the day isn't that what mattered? She'd taken him to the festival and let him eat all the strawberry shortcake he could possibly stand. They were supposed to race go-karts at the arcade but they were rained out. She sacrificed another few precious dollars to get him tokens and though the arcade games were no go-karts, she thought he enjoyed them. She even managed to get him to take a picture with her at the photo booth.

The picture strips hung on the blanket walls of their fort, black and white proof that he had _smiled_ today—that despite their mother's erratic behavior, Bea still made sure had a good day. She hoped seeing the pictures brought him as much consolation at it did her, however little relief it may be. They still had each other. That would never change.

* * *

Stiles sat at the table in the dining room eating his breakfast. Warm poptarts left steam behind on the white porcelain plate when he picked one up. Claudia was beside him, sipping at her coffee.

"Another year older," Claudia warmly pondered. "Happy birthday, baby. I'll pick up stuff to make fettuccine alfredo tonight when I go pick up your cake from the bakery. Your favorite!"

Stiles smiled. "All right!"

Claudia chuckled at him. "Bea said you two had fun at the festival yesterday. I'm sorry I wasn't there to see you race go-karts for the first time."

Stiles shrugged. "We didn't race them. It rained so we played games instead."

Claudia perked up at the news. "We can make it a special day! You me and Bea, maybe even your dad. We can take a trip to the arcade and race. How does that sound?"

With less enthusiasm than he would've expected, Stiles nodded. "That would be cool."

"Your hair is getting long," She told him, reaching over to affectionately push an unruly chunk of dark hair down. She held his cheek and smiled at him. Studying him, she frowned. Claudia's mouth set into a grim line and pulled away from her son.

He took another bite of his breakfast.

"Bea!" she called.

Faintly, a responding holler could be heard coming from the other room.

Claudia took a breath and shouted, " _BEA!"_

Stiles jumped and dropped his breakfast onto his plate in fright. He looked at Claudia with wide, brown eyes, and in an annoyed told, scolded her. "Inside voices, mom!"

Claudia ignored him. She watched the door like a hawk until Bea finally made an appearance.

" _What?"_ She asked, with no small dose of attitude.

"What time is it?"

Bea gaped. "Are you kidding me? There's a clock right there!" She pointed up at the wall.

"I didn't ask you where the clock was," Claudia irritably snapped. "I asked you for the time."

Bea, taken aback, could only stare speechless at her mother. She blinked and tried to figure out where this animosity came from. It wasn't like her, to put it mildly.

"Can't you read the clock, mom?" Stiles asked, eyeing Claudia curiously and without judgment.

Her eyes snapped to him. "Can you?"

He looked up at it and seemed to think long and hard before he sighed. "It's four forty."

Claudia almost seemed to soften at that, but Bea ruined the moment by interrupting.

"No, Stiles, that's the _little_ hand on the eight. The little hand points to the hour, the long hand points to the minute. That means it's eight fifteen in the morning." She paused. "Obviously. But good try," she quickly added, at Stiles' insulted expression.

Claudia was looking up at the clock like it was dripping down the wall or something. She looked mystified, and perhaps more worrying, she looked disturbed.

"Why?" Bea asked.

This shook Claudia out of her stupor. She blinked and looked back at her.

"Oh, I was just… I was thinking we could take Stiles to have his hair cut."

"It's Sunday," Bea reminded her, going to steal a bite of Stiles' poptart. She planted a kiss on his cheek when he tried to push her away with an indignant cry of protest. He scowled when she snickered at his little hand smacking her upside the head. "Barber shop's closed on Sunday," She finished around a mouthful of food.

"Is it really?" Claudia wondered. She shook her head. "But I thought…"

Bea felt the concern creeping back in. She shifted on her feet. Trying to keep her tone light and conceal her worry, she asked, "What time did you get to bed last night, anyways? You were still awake when I got up to go to the bathroom." Bea had—unsurprisingly—outlasted Stiles and stayed awake until two in the morning last night. It was just before two o'clock when she came out of Stiles' room to see Claudia sitting at the couch in the living room, staring vacantly at the black screen of the television.

Claudia suddenly stood from the table and walked across the floor towards the hall. "We'll go soon, Stiles. Promise. But not today. I have errands to run."

"What are they?" Bea persisted, following her into the hall. "Maybe I can go for you and you can take Stiles to Scott's. He's really excited to go; Scott just got a new dog and he's giving Stiles his present—"

Claudia stopped walking so abruptly that Bea ran into her back. She stepped back and looked at her mom in surprise, who was looking sternly at her. "Or _you_ can take Stiles to Scott's and _I_ can do the adult things, like go to the grocery store," she shook her head. "You should go play with the new dog. Be a kid, Bea. Wouldn't you prefer that?"

"No! Just listen; you don't have to, is all I'm saying," Bea hurriedly explained. "I can go do the boring stuff. I think Stiles would enjoy it if you—"

"Bea!" Claudia asserted, adopting a more annoyed and exasperated tone than previously. "This is not up for debate! You are the child. I am the parent. I also have to go to the insurance company today, to discuss something with our agent. Or would you like to do that for me as well? Do you think they'll do business with a twelve year old?"

She blinked at the cross expression her mom treated her to, and looked away. "I… I didn't know that. I was just trying to say that…"

"That what?" Claudia scoffed, and shook her head. "Honestly Bea, you've been arguing with me too much lately. It's nice that you're thinking of your brother but you need to listen to me when I tell you to do something. It's getting out of hand. I don't know if this is a phase or what, but this is the first warning I'm going to give you."

"Mom…" Bea stood still as Claudia continued through the hall to her room.

"Bea!" Claudia said, in that same reprimanding tone. "Are you really pushing this? I said enough!"

She sighed and shook her head when the door of her parent's bedroom shut with a thud. Turning, she came up short when she saw Stiles standing at the end of the hall with little frown.

"Whatever," He mumbled. "I wasn't going to ask her to come anyways."

"She—" Bea's mouth hung open. She drew a blank about what to say about Claudia's reaction. "It's fine. I can just take you."

"But you had plans with Derek, right?" Stiles shook his head. "That's not fair."

Bea gestured to Stiles' door. "Go get dressed. I'll call Melissa to let her know we're coming over."

"Bea, wait!"

She turned to look back at him. Stiles looked like he was trying to figure out to say what he wanted, and he finally looked up at Bea's face. "Derek could come too if you want. I know Scott won't care."

She could hug him. Bea flashed him a relieved smile. "Seriously?"

Stiles shrugged and started towards his room. "Ask when you call! I bet it will be cool with them."

Bea hurried to the phone in the living room with renewed vigor. The first person she should contact, she figured, was Derek. If he couldn't come there was no point in asking Melissa for permission, right?

She hopped back on the computer and reopened her instant messenger. A breath of relief passed her lips when she saw that he was still online.

Bea clicked his icon.

 **BeaWhizBatman:** Heyy…

 **dhale1988:** ready yet? the twins r already out there. laura's with them.

 **BeaWhizBatman:** They didn't wait? ?

 **dhale1988:** haha. that's funny. ur jk rite?

 **BeaWhizBatman:** Oh. No. Sorry.

 **dhale1988:** just hurry up!

 **dhale1988:** what did ur mom say?

Bea stared at the blinking icon. Her fingers ghosted over the keys as she hesitated.

 **BeaWhizBatman:** I didn't get the chance to ask

Shaking her head, she erased that.

 **BeaWhizBatman:** Stiles' friend got a new dog.

The little icon indicating that Derek was typing a response blinked. Bea waited, but it disappeared. Finally, he typed again and a message appeared.

 **dhale1988:** oooooook….

 **BeaWhizBatman:** I have to take him to see it.

 **dhale1988:** srsly? ? ? ? now? ?

 **BeaWhizBatman:** But he said u could come!

 **BeaWhizBatman:** If u want.

 **BeaWhizBatman:** I have 2 ask the parents but it might be fun.

 **BeaWhizBatman:** U wanna come?

 **dhale1988:** u said it was a dog right? like a real dog?

 **BeaWhizBatman:** No, a stuffed toy.

 **BeaWhizBatman:** YES a real dog!

 **dhale1988:** I cant.

 **dhale1988:** dogs dont like us.

 **BeaWhizBatman:** Wym?

 **dhale1988:** they dont like us! they dont like us near them.

 **BeaWhizBatman:** Wym? ?

 **dhale1988:** itll get mad and maybe try to bite someone.

 **BeaWhizBatman:** Why? ? ?

 **dhale1988:** theyre afraid of us I guess? I don't rlly know.

 **BeaWhizBatman:** That's so stupid! That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard! !

 **dhale1988:** Sorry.

 **BeaWhizBatman:** Ugh… no… I'm sorry.

 **BeaWhizBatman:** I wish I didn't have to bail. I feel bad.

 **dhale1988:** it's cool, B. I get it.

 **dhale1988:** we can go fishing next weekend. Without the twins and laura.

 **BeaWhizBatman:** Laura can come! I want to meet her.

 **dhale1988:** she wants to meet u 2.

 **BeaWhizBatman:** Cool!

 **dhale1988:** cool.

 **BeaWhizBatman:** Sorry :(

 **dhale1988:** I forgive you ;)

 **BeaWhizBatman:** Ew! ! Don't wink at me! ! !

 **dhale1988:** ;) Why not?

 **BeaWhizBatman:** It's creepy that's why! !

 **dhale1988:** ;) ;) ;) ;)

 **BeaWhizBatman:** …

 **BeaWhizBatman:** I'm leaving.

 **dhale1988:** ;) ill be seeing you

 **BeaWhizBatman:** Gross! ! ! Stop! I'll call the police! !

 **dhale1988:** lol drama queen

 **BeaWhizBatman:** XD Bye.

 **dhale1988:** later.

 **dhale1988:** chat tonite?

 **BeaWhizBatman:** duh!

Stiles came into her room, fully dressed, and announced that he was ready to go. "What are you doing?" He asked, coming to look over her shoulder. "Is that Derek? Oh, yuck."

"You don't even know him," Bea pointed out.

Stiles wrinkled his nose and shook his head. "Don't care! He's yuck."

She snorted as she shut down her computer. "Why did you invite him to come if you don't like him?

"Because." Stiles shrugged and shuffled impatiently. " _You_ like him. Is he coming?"

She shook her head and stood to ruffle his hair on the way out. "Not today, kiddo. You really do need to get this cut."

"I wonder what he got me for my birthday? I bet it's like one of those toy cars you can drive with a remote controller, like the one he has. So we can race them. _That_ would be pretty cool. It better not be yellow, though. I hate yellow. Ooh! We could tie cameras to them and spy on people, like those kids in the movies! Or tie a treat to the top and make his dog chase it around. He said they named it _Roxy_ ," Stiles babbled, following Bea to the front door. "What kind of name is that? He should've named it something cool like Tank or Doom!"

"You know, your name is pretty lame too."

He gasped. "Take that back!" He jumped to swat her in the arm as the front door closed behind them.

* * *

 **January 2012**

 **Beacon Hills, CA**

 **The Stilinskis' House**

"She wasn't all bad," Bea explained to Scott.

"But she promised she'd take him to the festival," Scott looked sad with wide eyes, taking on Stiles' childhood pain as his own. "As bad as my parents divorce might've been, they never forgot things like that. Not unless there was a really good reason."

"Remember the walkie talkies you guys used?" Bea said.

They both scoffed at the same time and Bea looked between them in confusion. Stiles was the one who responded. "Yeah, we still use them sometimes."

She looked at them like they were stupid. "Why? You have cellphones!"

They shrugged at her. "So?" said Stiles.

Bea threw a hand out. "So! So cellphones are—they're better! They do more! Why do I even have to explain this to you?"

"Cell phones require service," Scott countered. "Walkie talkies only need to be in range of each other."

"Cell phones leave a call history," Stiles continued. "Walkie talkies do not."

Bea gawked at them. For a long moment, she was speechless. Finally, she shook her head. "Okay, well, what the hell are you kids doing where there's no cell service? And why can't you leave a call record?"

"Uhhhh…" Scott looked at Stiles.

"We could tell you," Stiles lightly stated. "But then we'd have to kill you."

Staring, she shook her head and sighed. "Never mind. Plausible deniability. My _point is_ , that same weekend she went out and bought Stiles something she knew he'd love for his birthday—which wasn't even Saturday, it was Sunday. So she didn't technically forget. She just... didn't take him to the festival. And he got to go anyways, so whatever."

"What did she get him?" Scott curiously asked.

"A private investigator kit from that booth in the mall."

"Oh yeah!" Stiles exclaimed. "It came with those cameras we could never figure out how to set up."

"Well you were _six_ ," Bea said with a roll of her eyes. "The most use you two got out of the thing were the walkie talkies."

Scott frowned thoughtfully. "Private investigator kit? Wouldn't that have been pretty expensive?"

"It was." Bea started to put away the left over muffins, passing one more to each boy. "But that's… that's just how mom was. She would splurge on things we didn't need sometimes. Dad was kind of pissed off because the kit came with things he could've scavenged from the station."

"Yeah, good ol' mom. She was an impulsive shopper," Stiles admitted. He took a bite of the muffin and wiped away the crumbs that fell down his shirt, and gave a shrug—downplaying the reality of how it had been to grow up with Claudia as their mother. "She had some bad days, but I forgot about that one until you reminded me. All I can really remember was staying up late to build that Lego Hogwarts Castle and reading comics with you, Bea."

She paused. For a moment she couldn't move. Her chest swelled with contentment and she cleared her throat. "Well, that was the goal." She busied herself with cleaning up the rest of the kitchen. "Why are we talking about her again?"

"Well we were talking about Riley Bridge, and we just…" Scott trailed off awkwardly. "It came up."

Just like that, the warmness that flooded her heart at Stiles' admission was frozen over. Her smile dropped and she didn't move for a second.

Scott looked knowingly at Stiles. Thankfully they chose not to comment on it out loud. Instead, he pointed at Stiles' clothes. "You need to get ready. The visitation starts in half an hour."

She took a breath and composed herself and Stiles looked down. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

He wore normal clothes—meaning a white shirt under a casual button down and jeans.

"You look like Benny the Jet Rodriguez." Bea quipped. Scott snorted and shrugged unapologetically at the betrayed glare that Stiles sent his way. "Wear that nice black button down and something other than jeans and sneakers. Oh, I'll need to catch a ride with you guys."

"What? Why?"

"Because my bike chain is broken," Bea casually informed them. "Don't ask. Long story."

"First your car, now your bike? What's next? Your leg?" Stiles didn't really sound like he was joking. He sounded annoyed and worried, and Bea could only shrug. "Bea, this doesn't have anything to do with you… er, disappearing last night after you and dad argued about… whatever that was. Does it?"

"It might." Bea sighed. "Whatever. It's not a problem, okay? Just go get ready."

"Oh, you're going to Debbie's funeral?" Scott looked surprised. "I didn't realize you knew her."

Bea actively avoided their gazes. She cleared her throat and closed another cabinet. "Well… ' _knew'_ is a—a bit of an overstatement."

Stiles and Scott exchanged a mistrusting look. "And by that you mean…" Scott supplied.

"I mean it's my job to cover the story of the victims, and that includes going to events like this."

"Oh, Bea," Scott shook his head dutifully. "Are you sure that's a good idea? I mean, I'm not trying to be harsh, but if I were her family I don't think I would really want the media there at her funeral."

Stiles looked like he wanted to clobber his friend over the head. Scott shrugged at him and Stiles mimicked it back at him as Bea responded. "Who do you think I am? Rita Skeeter?"

Scott frowned.

"Debbie's family and friends are going to be gathered today to honor her, and share their memories of her. It's the perfect opportunity for me to get to know her as her family wants her to be remembered. Don't you think she deserves that? Don't you think she deserves to be remembered as more than just a name in a list of victims?"

Scott took a step back and shook his head. "I—I didn't… I wasn't thinking about it like that."

Stiles sighed and rapped his knuckles restlessly on the counter as Bea nodded.

"It's okay." Bea turned to go to her room. "I'm not some vulture, Scott. I don't even intend to take pictures. And the second that it seems like anyone is uncomfortable with my presence I'll leave. I'll stick to the outskirts. I'll blend in, and watch, and hear what they have to say."

Scott couldn't formulate an appropriate response, so he just nodded weakly and watched her leave the room. Behind her, she heard Stiles' unsympathetic voice clip, "Dude."

" _Sorry!"_ Scott hurriedly whispered.

She closed her bedroom door. The affronted, grim expression cracked on her face and she shook her head.

Idiots.

She meant what she said; she really did intend to go see what Debbie's family had to say, and she really did make an effort to gather information to portray them all as _people_ instead of victims.

But she also had a mystery to solve... because at that point, Bea was not at all convinced that these kids were actually committing suicide, or that they were involved in some scheme they plotted together to kill themselves, or that there was anything less than systematic serial murders happening in this town. In light of that, she also intended to be watching for any shady behavior so she could take note and investigate afterwards.

* * *

The Moores were the old-fashioned brand of wealthy. Getting let in to the viewing had been a process in and of itself. She'd been forced to give the same speech she gave Scott to the person letting people in the doors of the church: a stern man wearing all black with sunglasses, like a bouncer or a security guard for some politician. If it wasn't for the funeral programs he handed to the people allowed inside, it would be a little too cliche.

Stiles and Scott were instantly let through, being that they were students of Beacon Hills High school who were the same age as Debbie. They had a valid reason to be in attendance. As they progressed to the viewing, Scott studied the front of the program and Stiles turned to offer a pitch of apology to Bea.

It was sheer stroke of luck that one of Debbie's aunts was behind her waiting to get inside and overheard her explanation for attending. She was moved by her proclamations and declared that as the sister of Debbie's mother, she had the authority to insist that Bea be allowed inside.

"Honestly," The woman had said. "Such dramatics. I know that was Paul's idea. He's always been cynical, that one. But then, I suppose you would have to be in order to be successful in his line of work."

"Isn't he a judge for the superior court of California?" Bea frowned.

The woman leaned back with her eyebrows raised. "Yes, that's exactly right." She looked Bea over. "Ah, see? I was correct. You'll do right by our Deborah. You'll make sure everyone knows what an angel she was."

And with that, she tapped Bea on the shoulder and flitted away to go mingle with the other guests. Bea let out a long sigh and frowned at the woman's back. She hadn't exactly been… _morose_.

Stiles and Scott waved at her from a large, elegant table of what might have been snacks. It was just about as far as you could get from the casket, and if Bea had to guess, she'd say that was a tactical decision on their part. She returned the wave but didn't immediately head over. Her focus was on the soft piano music that played. It was the sort of melancholic melody that moves an audience to tears in television, the kind of music that you would only expect to hear with a ball of tissues wadded in your hands as you wept over some fictional character in a show.

There were several large displays positioned along the front of the nave that were surrounded by large and impressive floral arrangements. Flowers spilled over every available surface. It was a bright day out, so there was a lot of light bathing the whole sanctuary in an ethereal glow that was most concentrated on the closed, gleaming white casket at the center of the altar.

She tried to take notes on who was already sitting in the pews, and where they sat—she thought she could see Debbie's parents standing beside the casket but there was a flock of other guests around them so she couldn't be sure. There were a few high school kids also in attendance.

It seemed unwise to try and mingle with people she didn't know so she slowly made her way to the two people she did know in the room. As soon as she was in reach, Stiles pushed a small saucer of fruit into her hands and took her flute of champagne in a single motion. "I tried to call you!"

"I have my phone turned off," Bea explained, and frowned at her brother. "You need to turn yours off too, before it rings in the middle of a speech!"

Scott smacked his shoulder and Stiles waved them off. "Alright, alright, yeesh… Excuse me for trying to help you _do your job_."

Bea sighed. "What are you two doing hiding by the food? Those kids look your age, shouldn't you be talking to them?"

She indicated the kids she'd seen earlier. One of them noticed that she was looking at them and frowned. Stiles cursed and ducked behind the stacked display of fruit.

"Did they see me?" He asked Scott.

"Uh—" Scott's eyes were trained on them. He studied them and then turned around with a tight expression on his face. " _Everyone_ can see you, Stiles. Get up! Get up!"

Stiles popped out from behind the display and leaned his elbow casually on the table. Unfortunately, he also happened to lean on a platter of almond cookies, and they spilled into the floor.

The chatter over the room quieted as the guests turned to see what the commotion was. Bea could only stand there with her hands clutching her plate of fruit and slowly turn around, praying that the parents wouldn't decide to kick them out.

Stiles cursed as he fumbled to dump the cookies back into the platter and replace them in the neat arrangement they'd been in before he ruined it.

"Oh, man," Scott miserably murmured. "Stiles! They're about to come over here."

Stiles' head snapped up. His eyes darted around in panic and he seemed conflicted about which way to flee. "Bea! You've got to distract her while we make a get away!"

"What?" She looked around in alarm. "Who?!"

"Her!"

Bea followed his frantic gaze to one of the high school kids she'd indicated earlier. It was a girl. She had black hair and dark eyebrows, and wore a string of pearls around her neck. Her red painted lips were pulled into a sneer and her group of friends watched with varying degrees of objection on their faces as she stood and fixed Stiles with a venomous glare.

"She looks pissed," Bea whispered, turning back to her brother. "What did you do?"

"Nothing!" He choked.

Bea gave him a demanding scowl and he started to protest again when Scott answered for him, his words an endless string that was almost impossible to for Bea to decipher. "Last night we went to Lydia's back to school party and while we were there Stiles decided to try and talk to some of Debbie's friends."

"What?" Bea gasped, her hands dropping to her side. "Stiles! We explicitly agreed you _wouldn't_ do that! You said you wouldn't!"

Scott continued before Stiles go the chance to defend himself. "It didn't go well."

"What did you say?" She fretted.

"He basically said he thought Tyler and Debbie had an affair," Scott quickly filled in.

" _What?"_ burst Bea.

Stiles sputtered defensively. "I said what you said to say!"

Slowly, Bea clarified. "You said what _I_ said?"

"Yes!"

"How did you say it?" She pressed.

Stiles paused. "…I said what you said."

"But _how_ did you say it?"

"Like you did!" He shrilly exclaimed, gesturing urgently at her.

"But what _words_ did you use?!"

"YOUR WORDS, OKAY?" Stiles finally erupted, guilt ridden and frantic. Once again, a few people quieted to glare their way. This time Bea saw the Millers by the casket peering over at them and Bea latched tightly onto Stiles' arm as he whispered fiercely. "What you said just made sense and I didn't know how else to put it so I just—"

"You _didn't_!" She seethed.

"I panicked!" He threw his hands up before dropping them back to his head.

"You spazzed out like I said you would!" Bea admonished, and smacked him in the arm.

"I-It wasn't that bad!" Stiles tried.

"It was pretty bad," Scott corrected, shaking his head at Bea. Stiles gestured at him to shut up and Scott ignored it. "One of them cried."

Bea smacked her face and Stiles laughed like he knew something Scott hadn't thought of. "Well—that's because she was drunk! And probably because their friend is _dead!_ "

"Yeah, and you accused her of cheating on her boyfriend to their _face!"_ Bea exclaimed.

"Trust me, what I said was a compliment compared to what her quote unquote 'friends' had to say," Stiles recalled, making air quotes with his fingers.

"What?" Bea gaped. "Are you serious right now?"

"He's actually right," Scott gently cut in. "They were… I would never talk about my friends like they did. Especially not after…"

Curious, Bea tilted her head and glanced back. The girl was sitting again but they still shot them frequent dirty looks. It seemed like she was dying to come kick them out, but her friends were holding her at bay and pretending they didn't exist.

"What did they say?"

"They were drunk," Scott started. "Not that it makes it okay…" He shrugged weakly. "It's never okay to tell your friend's secrets."

Stiles aggressively agreed. "Look, I made a mistake, okay? You were right. I freaked out; I never should have started with them. But they... they took it _way_ too far, okay? I never expected them to... When I suggested that she might've been cheating on Roy they _laughed_ about it."

"What?" Bea gawped.

Scott nodded angrily and took over explaining. "They laughed it off and acted surprised that we hadn't already heard. They talked about Debbie like she was… I don't know, like they were still sick of her. They compared her to Bella from Twilight. One of the girls tried to say she was 'still Team Tyler' and they all turned on her and said that was expected since she was like the Jessica of the group." He shrugged. "I don't even know the characters that well and I could tell it was an insult."

"Wow," Bea blinked.

"And then they told us that…" Stiles looked around. He ushered Bea to a more secluded corner, behind a ring of yellow and white daffodils. Once they were alone he leaned in and kept his voice to a low murmur. "Apparently Roy moved away because Debbie was pregnant."

"What?" Bea gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth.

He nodded knowingly. "That's not all. She had an abortion. They called her…" He shook his head in disgust. "It doesn't matter what they called her. I mean, it _does_ , but it's not worth repeating." He looked like he genuinely couldn't understand what would make them do such a thing. "It was like they didn't care, like they… like they couldn't blame her for committing suicide after what she did, and like they blamed her for Tyler too or something. I think they feel bad for Roy." Stiles sighed. "I don't know. All I know is if I was Roy, I'd be here right now."

"He's not?" She looked around in surprise. "How do you know?"

"Scott and I have been looking for him because Scott knew him from the lacrosse team." Stiles gave Bea a mildly sardonic face. "Scott's pretty good at lacrosse now, I don't know if you're aware of that or not. He's kind of the star player. The older kids really like him, so he knew Roy. He was going to offer his condolences, but…"

"He's not here," She finished. Stiles nodded. Bea sat back and blew out a long sigh. "What a mess," She muttered.

The guests of the funeral seemed to have forgotten about Stiles' social faux pas. They were back to grieving and they didn't pay any attention as the dark haired high school girl from before cut a line through the pews with her sights set directly on Scott.

Stiles leaped out from behind the ring of flowers to rejoin his friend's side. Bea hesitated and watched as Scott gave Stiles a bracing look and they waited for the girl to reach them. Slowly, Bea came up from behind.

The girl stopped and grabbed a saucer. She made the point to grab some food as she spoke. "What are you two doing here?" She asked, her voice cold. " _Besides_ making a scene. Again."

"We weren't trying to make a scene," Scott apologized. "We just wanted to pay our respects."

"You didn't even _know_ her," The girl challenged. She practically threw the tongs back onto fruit display. "You weren't her friend."

"Come on," Stiles frowned. "That's not true! You know that's not true. We grew up with her!"

"You—" the girl snorted. "You grew up with her? Stiles, you had _class_ with her."

"I—"

"You didn't grow up with her! I did! Our families have Thanksgiving together every year! I went to her grandma's funeral when she died in junior high! I was over at her house _every_ weekend! _I'm_ the one she told her secrets to!"

Stiles looked away like he was dying to say something but kept his mouth clenched shut. The girl continued to glare at them for a few seconds, her eyes specifically trained on Scott, as though she thought he was the one who called the shots and ultimately the one she needed to convince to leave peacefully. Scott looked back unabashed. "We were allowed in," he pointed out. "This is the viewing. It's for the public and close family members."

"It's for friends and family," The girl claimed, lifting her chin. "I'm the closest thing the Moores have to a daughter right now. I know what Debbie would want, and she wouldn't want you two here spreading around nasty rumors about her."

Stiles eyes flashed and Bea's jaw dropped.

Scott's chest puffed in indignation. Stiles spat that, " _We_ wouldn't do something like—"

"You need to leave," The girl warned, and set her saucer of untouched fruit back on the table. "Before I have you thrown out." Suddenly, her eyes turned to Bea, who she was entirely unsurprised to see. "And _you_. I know who you are. I heard about what you said to get in here, and I don't buy it for a second. You can go with them, or I'll let the judge know who you are since calling the cops wouldn't matter anyways."

Bea didn't bother to protest. Though she was bursting at the seams with unspoken retorts and her mind spun with questions and a few choice criticisms of her own, she kept her mouth shut and grabbed Stiles by the arm.

"What—"

She silenced him with a look, and her brother's mouth snapped shut in defeat. He looked insulted and bitter as Bea guided him around Scott and towards the doors.

"Katie," Scott said to the girl, his tone heartfelt. "I'm sorry about Debbie, and I'm really sorry that we upset you by coming. That wasn't what we were trying to do…"

Bea didn't get the chance to hear the girl's response. She pushed Stiles around the outskirts of the sanctuary, sticking to walls sand avoiding people in general until they reached the doors. Bea made a point not to look at the man in black who waited near the exit as they passed by.

She pushed Stiles back into the daylight and let him go. They kept walking until they were on the sidewalk and they both sighed at the same time. "I _hate_ funerals," Stiles scathingly confided.

Bea nodded in agreement and they caught sight of Scott emerging from the church with a troubled expression on his face. He spotted them and started down the steps.

"Kids?"

They both whipped around. Sheriff Stilinski approached, out of uniform and dressed in a dark suit jacket and black slacks. His hair was neatly combed and he was freshly shaven. His eyes looked strikingly blue against the navy of the shirt he wore.

"Were you just about to head in?" He asked, his eyes flitting curiously between them. In his hands he grasped a neat bouquet of white tulips.

Stiles and Bea traded a guarded expression. "Actually, we were just leaving," Bea spoke.

Sheriff checked his watch. "Already? It started fifteen minutes ago." He focused a narrowed gaze on them, which Bea and Stiles both knew from a childhood's worth of experience translated directly to _explain yourself._

Bea lifted her chin. She was still tense and hadn't quite forgiven Sheriff for what he said last night. "It felt unnecessary to linger," She shortly informed him, keeping her tone clipped and civil.

It was the truth… or at least, a shrouded version of the truth. She wasn't about to share with their father that they were just kicked out.

"I would keep your visit short too," Scott advised. "They'll probably be even less happy to see you."

Sheriff sighed tiredly, as though he could only imagine what happened. Bea itched to give Scott a dirty look for ruining her carefully constructed response but she simply looked down the street towards the old blue jeep.

"Yeah, I was afraid of that." He shook his head. "It never gets easier."

She wondered what he meant: funerals in general, or giving his condolences to families of victims? She supposed it was likely some combination of the two.

"Do you have the rest of the day off?" Stiles asked him.

Sheriff nodded. "I went home at lunch. Took part of a sick day."

That in and of itself was rare. Sheriff doesn't _take_ sick days. Period. One of them would have to be in the hospital before that would happen, and even then… She cleared her throat and dispelled the memories from her mind.

"Wow, okay…" Stiles' tone reflected Bea's thoughts. Sheriff's face didn't betray his reaction. "Well, in that case we could have dinner together—"

"I have plans," dismissed Bea.

Sheriff and Stiles looked at her. Stiles was frustrated but Sheriff just looked… sad, and accommodating, and that made it worse somehow.

"With who?" Stiles wanted to know.

"A source," She hedged. "I need to meet with them to discuss…" She let her eyes flit to Sheriff and then back down the street. "It doesn't matter. But I can't make dinner."

"Fine," Stiles bitterly said. "But you two can't avoid each other forever. Whatever it is you're arguing about—"

"We're not arguing." Bea shook her head. She turned her gaze on Sheriff. "Are we, dad?"

He looked at her for a long moment. "I'm not mad."

"See?" She gestured at him and looked to her brother, her smile taut. "He's not mad."

"But—you…" Stiles shook his head. "You know what? I'm not even going to say anything. Why should I waste my breath?"

Scott shifted awkwardly. "Uh…guys, I don't mean to interrupt but I rode here with you and… I kind of have to get to work soon."

Bea stepped away. "Take him to the clinic, Stiles. I'll get my own ride."

"With who?" Stiles called, as she made her way down the sidewalk in the opposite direction of the jeep and the Sheriff. "Bea!"

She didn't respond. She just kept putting one foot in front of the other and focused on the phone in her hand.

* * *

 _(A/N): As the author it's always very exciting to see who you guys ship my characters with XD Shout out to the very lovely reviewer who said she shipped Derek/Bea and Peter/Bea!_

 _Thank you for favoriting and following this story, and leaving your thoughts in a review!_


	11. Chapter 11

**January 2012**

 **Beacon Hills, CA**

 **Record Breakers**

Bea finished putting her hair up into a messy bun, having taken it down from the neat style she'd spent an hour pinning it in before the funeral. She dumped the extra bobby pins into the trashcan that sat outside the doors and they fell inside in a messy clatter.

The chill of the air was chased away by the heat of the modest instrument store as she passed through the automatic doors, and Bea passed the section of digital pianos and scanned the room for Diane.

A slight man wearing a blue uniform t-shirt stood at the counter. There was a guitar laid across the top of the counter that he bent over, squinting at something in the neck as he twisted the strings.

"Are you here for the banjo with the cracked resonator?" He asked without looking up.

Bea stopped walking when she was within an arm's reach of the counter. "You… sell banjos with cracked resonators?"

He snorted and stopped when he saw she was frowning in confusion. His eyes were magnified behind thick reading lenses and it made him look like a younger, more Jeff Bridges version of the old repairman from Toy Story 2.

Looking her over, his exaggerated blue eyes gave a great blink that she thought she could hear from across the counter. "Ms. Rooster?"

"Uh, _no_ ," she said with a smirk.

He dropped the small tool in his hand into a cup and pushed his glasses to the top of his head as he stood up. "Good thing, too." He offered her a companionable grin. "I'm afraid Ms. Rooster's banjo doesn't have a great prognosis."

She stared at him for a few moments while he gathered more tools and began to return them to a large box on the side of the counter with careful, practiced movements. "Right… Bea paused. "I'm actually looking for the manager."

The man's genial expression dropped like a dead weight. Suddenly, he took a step back and become distantly professional. "Oh. I see. Well, the manager is out for… personal leave. She won't be back for… a while, and in the mean time, I'm standing manager, so you'll have to come to me with all of your complaints. Would you like the number for customer service?"

"No, no!" she quickly waved off. "Nothing like that, I actually—I'm, er, _friends_ with the manager. Sort of. I just wanted to give her my condolences."

The loosely hostile sneer vanished and was replaced with wariness. He drew in a deep sigh and grabbed the oversized toolbox from the side of the counter with a grunt. "I'll pass the message along. Now, is there anything else? I'm still expecting that customer for the irreparable banjo and I'd like to grab another cup of coffee before she gets here."

"Well, wait," She frowned, resting her hand on the glass counter top. "She's not coming in, I take it?"

He pressed his lips together and shook his head.

Bea nodded, thinking of how happy Diane had been to finally get promoted to manager, and how unfair it was that it had been taken away so quickly. "Well do you know where she lives? I'm sure she could use a friend right about now."

He snorted. Once again, when he saw she was serious, he stopped short and slowly frowned. The toolbox clattered as he dropped it back onto the counter. "Diane's in jail."

" _What?"_ Bea exclaimed. "Jail!? For what?"

Hesitation stopped him from responding. Bea almost reached around the counter to grab him by the collar and force him to answer. She gripped the edge of the counter tightly instead. Apparently deciding something, the man let out a loud, huffy sigh and shook his head. "Screw it. It's not like she'll be coming back any time soon to blow me crap for this, so—and this is really all I know… she shot some guy."

"What?" Bea balked. "Why?"

"Diane is… an _angry_ griever," He explained with an unhelpful shrug. "Which should really come as no surprise. As for why she shot the man, I don't exactly know, but maybe it's the usual motive. What do they call it? A crime of passion?"

"But—she wouldn't just… I never would've thought that…" She rubbed at her forehead and dispelled a breath, looking back up at him. "Did she kill him?"

"I don't believe so," He waved off, suddenly looking somewhat amused. "It's a flesh wound."

Bea shook a mystified face at him. "How do you know all this?"

"She was screaming it at the deputies that came to arrest her this morning," he revealed, a boyishly excited grin on his face. "Got it all on camera in the back if you'd want to see."

"No—" she stopped. Against her better judgment, she blinked at him. "Wait… seriously?"

He looked like he wanted to say yes. "Ah… Second thought, I probably shouldn't. If this thing goes to court I'll have to give the tapes up and then I might get caught in the crossfire for disclosing confidential information."

"Fuck!" Bea cursed, banging her fist on the glass counter. "Did you say deputies?"

"Local department," He nodded. "Eight fifteen AM sharp, before we opened. We hadn't even gotten the drawers counted yet."

She sighed heavily. Scratching at her eyebrow, Bea tapped the counter and thanked him.

* * *

"How did you get here, anyway?" Parrish asked, annoyed. He hovered near his desk like he could think of about fifty other things he'd rather do than this.

"I walked," Bea said.

He looked her over. "From the music store all the way across town. Wearing funeral clothes."

She looked down at her black dress and paused. "It… yes."

"Okay, well… why did you have to walk? Usually you ride that bike."

She narrowed her eyes. "Why did you say it like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like a joke!" She exclaimed, waving her hand at him.

"I'm not joking!" He shifted on his feet and another deputy who stood near the coffee pot snorted. Bea kept the glare off her face when she looked his way. "Hey, I have a mountain bike I use on my weekends off! I'm not laughing, I swear! Is it broken? I have tools; I might be able to fix it."

She cringed at his concern. "Don't be such a boy scout, Parrish. It's _fine_."

"I've never been a boy scout," he discounted with a flat expression.

She gestured to his uniform, which was the short-sleeved version once again. "Yeah, you're missing the scarf. It shatters the illusion."

He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "So what did you need, anyways?"

"Actually, I…." she threw a hesitant glance at the other deputy. "Can we talk alone?"

Parrish frowned at the request, but nodded. "Is this about your dad?"

"What?" She came up short and tried to read his face, but Parrish quickly rearranged his features to be blank and unassuming, so she didn't catch much beyond deception. Her eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing, it's just…" Parrish frowned intently. "He took a sick day."

Bea's shoulders relaxed and she dispelled a breath, nodding in agreement. "Yeah. Well, this is sort of about that."

He gestured to the interrogation room off to the side and at Bea's skeptical look, he snorted and waved her on encouragingly. "Come on, don't tell me this is the first time you've been in one of these."

"It's the first time I've been on the other side of the glass," She admitted. The room was small and poorly lit; fulfilling every single cliché there was on TV. A table occupied the center of the room with two chairs on either side. An extra chair sat unused in the corner.

Bea waited for the door to shut behind them without taking a seat.

"Did you need something to drink? I think there's some coffee or tea or something in the break room," Parrish offered as he sat, his hand fiddling with the notepad at his hip. He took it out and also took a pen out of his breast pocket, nodding to the chair opposite him.

She shook her head no.

"Grab a seat and we'll get started," he suggested.

"Look, this isn't really, like, a report or anything like that. This is more of me asking you for a favor."

Parrish's eyebrows rose. He scratched at his temple. "Okay… what do you need to ask that you couldn't say in front of the other deputy?"

She hesitated.

"That you also couldn't ask your dad?" He added, staring willfully back at her deer-in-the-headlights look of surprise. Parrish rolled his eyes. "I'm not blind, you know. We might be the same age but I'd appreciate if you gave me the same respect I give you for your job."

She winced from that unexpected jab. Shifting on her feet, she pulled her jacket around tighter and nodded shamefully. "Sorry. I… I guess it's because I grew up around the station, so I don't see you guys as officers."

His face lost its edge as he considered it. "I hadn't really thought of it like that. I guess… that makes sense. You grew up around policemen, huh?"

She shrugged. "But you're right. I'll try to refrain from calling you a boy scout in the future," She smirked.

Parrish rolled his eyes and looked away as he closed his notepad. "So what's this favor?"

Bea finally sighed and sat across from Parrish. "It's about Diane," She lowly admitted.

Parrish perked up. "Diane, as in Sasha's sister, Diane?"

"I just wanted to check on her," Bea admitted.

He sighed much like she had moments ago. Bea watched knowingly as Parrish ruffled his hair and looked at her tiredly. "Who told you?"

"Her coworker," Bea explained. "The new standing manager. I actually didn't catch his name. He said that… he said that she shot a guy?"

"She's being charged," he nodded. At her questioning expression, he elaborated. "Aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, trespassing and resisting arrest."

"Jesus Christ," swore Bea. She covered her face to process the news. What would make Diane do something so reckless? And so soon after Sasha… "What about her family? Have they been to see her at least? Or tried posting bail?"

Parrish hesitantly shrugged. "She has none left. Sasha was pretty much it. And… there's no bail yet. They're withholding it. I think the fear is that if she got the chance to finish the job, she'd take it."

A heavy silence filled the room and Bea was overcome with conflicting instincts. Part of her was afraid that if she tried to interfere she would only somehow make things worse. But another part whispered that Diane was _alone_ right now. She would be at the lowest point of her life _and_ trapped in one of the worst places someone could be.

"Can I see her?" Bea asked, unwilling to acknowledge that her eyes stung. She blinked harshly and Parrish was gallant enough to pretend not to notice.

"It's no use," Parrish lightly reasoned. "Besides the fact that it's against protocol, I'd be willing to bet money that she wouldn't talk to you anyway."

"I have to try," Bea insisted. "I might be able to help."

"Help?" He shook his head. "How? It's an open-and-shut case. There's no doubt that she did it. She admitted it to us the second we told her she was under arrest. In fact she was disappointed he wasn't worse off."

" _Who_ did she shoot?" Bea reached across the table as though she could physically pull the answer from Parrish, but she let her hand fall flat against the top.

"I can't disclose that at this time," Parrish regretfully told her. "I'm sorry, Bea. It's an ongoing investigation."

"Then let me see her, at least. From what you're describing _I'd_ be willing to bet money that she hasn't made your lives any easier. But she knows me." _Sort of._ "If I could get her to talk, then… maybe I could help her. Convince her to take some deal or something."

"You'd do that?" Parrish frowned. "Why do you care about them so much?"

"Because!" Bea stopped to take a calming breath. "Because right now..." her mind flitted with a thousand explanations, none of which really bolstered her case because they were too deeply rooted in emotions. _Because it's wrong to leave someone to fend for themself when they've just had their heart ripped out of their chest. Because Bea's been there, she's been in Diane's shoes and she knows how tempting it is to want to take revenge on anything, on everything—to make everyone hurt as much as you do._ "I have a vested interest to remind her the world isn't against her."

Parrish seemed to understand, but it didn't mean he approved. He let her words marinate before responding. "Her sister died two nights ago," he quietly acknowledged. "And all she's been able to talk about—besides how much she wishes she 'killed the bastard'—is how Sasha won't get a proper funeral if she can't make arrangements."

"Let me help her," Bea said. "I can help her."

Parrish sighed. He sat his keycard down on the table and stood from his seat. "I'm going to get you a cup of coffee."

She watched, silent and stoic as he left the door wide open and his keycard face up. The hall was empty. Distantly, she could hear Parrish asking the other deputy to come help him with the printer so he could get a form ready for Bea to fill out.

Bea waited a few moments, pocketed the card and ducked down the hall.

The holding cells looked the same as they always had. Diane sat on the cot that was attached the wall with her elbows on her knees and her head down. Even when Bea stepped in the room, Diane didn't seem to notice her presence. She heard Diane sniff and rub what might've been a bracelet between her fingers.

Bea cleared her throat. Diane gasped and quickly shoved whatever was in her hand under her thigh. She froze when she spotted Bea. Diane's red-rimmed eyes looked past Bea and she frowned when she saw no officers in the hall.

"What, no backup?" She smartly quipped.

Bea crossed her arms and approached the bars of Diane's cell. "I'm sorry about Sasha."

Diane flinched. Her face was pale and there were bruises under her eyes that spoke to how little rest she'd been getting. Bea had just seen her two days ago, but Diane looked so different it could've been two years.

She wore a baggy tan jumpsuit, and Bea knew from her years spent hanging around the station that it meant her clothes had likely been covered in blood and therefore confiscated as evidence. It also meant Sheriff Stilinski didn't anticipate that she would be getting out any time soon.

Diane didn't respond to Bea's condolences, which she understood. However heartfelt the delivery might've been it fell short of consoling her at all.

"I stopped by Record Breakers this morning to look for you."

Diane snorted. "Yeah? What did Donnie tell you?" She shook her head. "He tell you about the deputy I clipped in the nose? Or that I knocked over a display of harmonicas because they chased me around Benny Hill style?"

A laugh escaped Bea's lips like a yelp. "No, but that really paints a picture."

"What do you want?" She gestured around the cell. "You here for another interview? Want to ask me about how Sasha's death makes me feel, up close and raw?"

" _No_ ," she fiercely denied. "No more interviews."

"What, then?" Diane stood to take slow, purposeful steps towards the bars and Bea got a good look at the butterfly bandages that held together a nasty looking gash on her forehead she hadn't noticed before. "Because I got nothing left to give you people. I'm _done_. Forever."

"I just wanted…" Bea's throat started to ache and she cleared it before she continued. "I wanted to ask why you would do this?"

Diane's eyes darkened and she stepped back, a shadow crossing her face.

"Because," Diane snarled. "That son of a bitch deserves to _rot in hell_ for what he did!"

"What did he do?" Bea finally asked, watching Diane closely.

Diane rubbed her nose with the back of her hand and paced across her cell. "He cheated on me," She admitted, her voice breaking.

Disbelief, sick and tainted with disappointment, bubbled fast and hot in Bea's chest. "He _cheated_ on you?" She couldn't keep the derision out of her voice and Diane picked it up in an instant.

She practically threw herself against the bars as she screamed, "With my _baby_ _sister_ , you judgmental cow!"

Bea stumbled back and blinked in surprise. "What?"

Diane nodded forcefully, her eyes shining bright. "Yeah. You're catching on now."

"That's what she meant when she said…" Bea realized aloud. "Sasha said when you came to get her from the motel that she was confessing about something. She never did say what it was, but that's it, isn't it? That's what you two had your big argument about? And that's why you told her not to come back?"

"I don't give a _shit_ about that—" She launched into a string of insults and curses that was hard even for Bea to follow. By the end of it, Diane was panting and she kicked at the bars of the cell as hard as she could. Her hair dangled in her face and she lowly growled that, "He took advantage of her! I never would've let some broke ass hipster come between me and… me and…"

A sob racked her body and Diane seemed to dissolve to the floor. She shook so hard that no sound came from her mouth as she twisted her hands in her hair.

Crouching down, Bea slid her hand through the bars to grab Diane's shoulder.

Diane barely noticed. She gasped in a shuddering breath. "I was just s-so mad," She admitted, her voice breaking. "So fucking mad. She… she actually… and it's _his_ fault. How was I supposed to—to _live_ —knowing that it was because he… because _they_..." Diane sucked in a breath. "And _I_ … What choice did I have? I couldn't let him get away with it! He couldn't just…"

She shook her head and pushed her hair back, her voice thick with tears. "I did what I had to do," She insisted, lifting her eyes to Bea. "I did what anyone would've done. I made sure that bastard _paid_."

"You… shot him," Bea uncertainly clarified.

Diane leaned back against the wall and reached for the pocket of her pants. Bitterly, she laughed. "Fuck, I forgot. No cigarettes." Her hands trembled until she clenched them into fists. "Yeah, I shot that son of a bitch. In the ass."

Bea choked out a laugh that she immediately stifled with her hand.

Diane looked at her sideways, an eyebrow cocked. "I wasn't _aiming_ for the ass," She lowly revealed. "But that fucking coward tried to run."

This time she didn't hide the crooked smirk as she rested her chin on her arm and tried to picture how it went. "He'll have to live with it for the rest of his life."

Diane shook her head. "It's not enough. Sasha's _dead_ because of him. I'll be in prison for the next few years, and all he gets is a shiny scar on his ass cheek that he'll probably lie about and use to pick up chicks. It's not right."

Bea had nothing to add because she was absolutely right. She quietly thought about it and Diane scoffed softly at something.

"You know what?" She muttered. "I don't care how long it takes. I'll wait fifty years if I have to. But one way or another, he's gonna get what's coming to him."

There was no good response in that situation, so Bea kept her mouth shut. Choosing her words carefully, she said, "Sasha deserves a funeral."

Diane flinched. "You think I don't know that?" She growled. "I can't very well give her one from here, can I?"

"I'm offering to give her one," Bea quickly finished.

Diane stared at her blankly. She looked caught between anger and disbelief. "You?"

Bea nodded.

"Why?" Diane glared. "Why would you do that?"

"When I spoke with Sasha at the candle light vigil, I noticed how tired she looked so I suggested that she should go home to get some sleep. She wouldn't even hear it. She said that…" Bea's heart twisted slightly. "It was important to be there for her classmates, even if she hadn't been there in time to help them sooner."

Diane's face scrunched and she quickly covered it with her hands. A pained sound caught somewhere between a groan and a sob was muffled by her hands and she drew in a ragged breath. " _Damn_ it," she wept, dropping her hands to push herself higher up against the wall. "That fucking kid, I swear. Look, even if I wanted to say yes, I couldn't. All my money is going towards legal fees. I told you, I got nothing left to give."

Bea sadly nodded her head. "Don't worry about the costs, Diane. It's immaterial."

Diane gave her a weird look. "Fine. Whatever that means. Do whatever you freaking want. It's better than the alternative. But _only_ if you promise not to play any of that Bette Midler _Wind Beneath My Wings_ crap, okay? Play some AC/DC or Led Zeppelin or something."

Bea beamed at the sullen woman before her. "As you say."

* * *

Stiles had been sufficiently confused when he got the call from Bea to come pick him up at the station. Fortunately, he hadn't been wrapped up in anything that prevented him from coming, so together they drove to the mechanics so Bea could check on her car.

Bea stood at the front counter with her hand pushed in her hair and her eyes closed as she listened to the mechanic explain that it would be another couple of weeks before she could get her car back.

"You've already had it for two weeks though," She said in a carefully measured tone. The mechanic nodded and added nothing. Bea blinked at him. "Well… what have you been doing for two weeks?!"

"We're backed up," He excused. "A couple of weeks ago we had a lot of ice. I've got two other cars that need their hoods and bumpers replaced; one of them needs new headlights installed. One of them needs an engine rebuilt. They all need cosmetic touch ups. I've got a police cruiser that's got its wires all crossed and I can't figure out what's going on with it."

Stiles perked up from where he'd been browsing the steering wheel covers. "What's wrong with it?" He asked, sliding up beside Bea with interest.

"Every time the left turn signal is engaged the windshield wipers start going crazy," The mechanic burst, some pent up frustration spilling through in the exclamation.

Stiles made a noise of intrigue and asked if he could see it.

"Just—" Bea cut off with her hand in the air. She took a breath. "Can we focus?"

The mechanic shrugged at her. "Look, I apologize for how long it's taking but it's not exactly a quick-fix situation you've got going on here."

"Do you have the parts you need?"

He sighed and raised his eyebrows hesitantly. "The bumper and the hood have been removed and I prepped the body a couple days ago between repairs for other cars while we waited for the new ones to get in. They came yesterday, and except for a few adjustments, they're basically attached."

"Great!" She clasped her hands, pleased. The mechanic stared blandly as she started to dig through her bag. "Do you take American Express?"

He started to chuckle and Bea did a double take. The mechanic readjusted the way his cap sat on his head and smacked his lips as he chomped at a light green wad of bubblegum she could see peeking through his teeth. "Slow down there, sweetheart. You haven't heard the kicker yet."

"The…" She looked at Stiles who was careful to keep from making any sudden moves, apparently sensing her spike in blood pressure. "The _kicker?"_

He then launched into an overly complicated explanation that was impossible for Bea to follow, rattling off terms she should know but didn't, and by the end of it she gathered that it would be another month or so before the part he required made it to the shop.

"You said it was the truck's fault, right?" The mechanic asked.

Bea shrugged because she didn't see how it was relevant. "Yeah, why?"

"Well he did you a favor. A blessing in disguise or some crap like that. It's a miracle you didn't get wrapped around a pole somewhere."

"Oh yeah," She said with a roll of her eyes. "He was a real guardian angel. But none of that fixes my transportation problem!"

The mechanic shrugged unhelpfully. "Yep. About two hundred and thirty five bucks will though." Bea rubbed her face.

"This is going to take another month?" She clarified, ignoring his explanation on the hunch that it was an intimidation tactic that mechanics sometimes used so they could overcharge you for unnecessary repairs. She dug around in her bag.

"At least." He readjusted his cap again and looked at Stiles.

"Are you sure there's… not any way to get a couple weeks shaved off that?" She asked, focusing a meaningful look on him as she slid a five-dollar bill across the counter.

He stared at her, unimpressed. "Well as _tempting_ as that offer is, it's like I said: it's going to cost around two-hundred and thirty more dollars for the part. Did you say it was American Express? We don't take that card."

" _Two_ -hundred—" she squawked. "Can't you just slap on some duct tape and send me on my merry way?"

Stiles shuffled and said, "I remember the last time I had a conversation like this. The mechanic died."

The man behind the counter stood up straight and frowned incredulously at Stiles. "Was that supposed to be some kind of ass backwards threat, kid?"

"Just an observation," Stiles shrugged. "In my experience the career outlook for you isn't great; that's all I'm saying."

The mechanic squinted in disbelief at him for a second before his eyes popped open and he recoiled in shock. " _Hey!_ I know you! I remember you! You're the kid who found Johnny when he was crushed by that jeep last year!"

Bea leaned in front of Stiles' with a hand on her hip. " _Excuse_ me?"

Stiles coughed awkwardly.

"Him?" She grabbed her brother's shoulder like she thought maybe the mechanic was confused. " _This_ skinny little chicken legged boy _found_ _one of your coworkers_ —did you say he was _CRUSHED?"_

Stiles tried to answer. "Yeah, uh, it was like a… like a Final Destination situation, and it took a lot of therapy for me to get past that one—but _thank you_ , Mr. Mechanic, for reminding me of it so colorfully; my nightmares thank you," Stiles sourly stammered.

Bea grabbed her head as it spun in incredulity. Her mind felt like it'd been short-circuited and no matter how she tried to think of it, she couldn't quite come to terms with the fact that her little _brother_ found a human being crushed under his jeep last year. How had she not heard of this?

Stiles waved a hand and caught Bea's stunned attention again. "Oh, hey, but my jeep was fixed so I left you guys a vaguely positive yelp review."

The mechanic's eyes narrowed. "Oddly enough that didn't really improve the steep drop in customers we've had since the accident."

Stiles hands closed into fists. He looked down and cleared his throat discreetly. "Could be the, uh… customer service is to blame for that…"

The mechanic looked over Bea's shoulder at a man who entered the shop. The door closed with a gentle tinkle of the bell on the door, and he looked unsympathetic as Bea massaged her temples and counted to ten for the third time.

"You have another form of payment, right?" He popped a bubble in his gum.

Bea let her hands fall from her head and withdrew to force a polite smile on her face while Stiles flicked at the display of motor oil on the counter. "Do you accept checks?"

* * *

"There's the shop over by the library," Stiles recalled. He'd been trying to persuade Bea to have her car towed to a new mechanic shop the entire rest of the ride.

"It's fine, Stiles."

The jeep turned into the parking lot in front of the high school and Stiles waited to turn to her until it was parked. "It's really not," He frankly stated. "You've been showing up to interview people on a bike like Steve Carrell in The 40 Year Old Virgin."

She scoffed and smacked his arm. "It's not that bad!"

He stared at her dubiously until she sat back and had to laugh, the image of Steve Carrell swerving joyfully across the road on a bike stuck on a loop in her mind. "...Seriously? It's that bad?"

He shrugged. "If you don't go to another mechanic shop at _least_ rent a car. Please. For the love of god."

Before she could respond, someone rapped at the window by her face. Bea jumped in her seat and knocked her head against the roof of the jeep and Stiles exclaimed loudly in surprise.

Mason was standing on the other side, holding up a brochure with a wide grin on his face. He gave a thumbs-up and pointed at the brochure enthusiastically.

"Who is _that?"_ Stiles complained.

" _That's_ who I'm meeting with," She explained.

"Him?" Stiles pointed at the young man, who'd backed away from the window to wait impatiently outside. He waved with a cheerful smile. "He's… intense."

Bea blew out a sigh. "Yeah, but he was one of the last people besides me to talk to Sasha before she died. And I think I'm going to ask if he wants to help me plan her funeral."

"When I picture investigative journalists meeting with sources, I picture… codenames and dark, shadowy parking garages. Not…" They both turned to look at Mason, who was shrugging at Bea as if to ask her what was taking so long.

"Reality is much less glamorous than Hollywood would have you believe, brother," She patronized with a pat on his cheek.

Stiles pulled out from her reach irritably. "Except that _actually_ happened. Watergate? That was real."

Bea rolled her eyes. "Okay, but this story doesn't involve the president."

"How do you know?" Stiles countered with a tilt of his head.

She pushed his shoulder. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mickey."

He motioned for her to stop. "Wait a second, you're seriously not coming home for dinner?"

She shrugged as she opened the door and Mason made way for her. "Call me if you need anything."

He watched with a frown on his face as Bea closed the jeep and put the strap of her bag over her shoulder.

"I was surprised to get your call," Mason admitted. The jeep backed out of its space and Bea turned to wave one last time at her pouty brother, who pulled away. "Is that your brother?"

"Yeah, you know him?" She hooked her thumb over her shoulder in the direction Stiles had gone.

"Oh, not really," Mason shrugged. "He's part of the upper echelon in the school; you know, different classes and different social circles. And obviously since he's your brother that means he's the sheriff's kid. He's also Scott McCall's best friend, right?"

It was somewhat surprising to hear her brother described as such. In the past, it would've been Scott who was Stiles' friend, not the other way around. "Wow," Bea said, raising her eyebrows. "You really do your research."

Mason blushed. "Oh, no, I just pay attention to the details."

She winked at him. "Sure, kid. Thanks for agreeing to meet with me."

"Are you kidding?" He scoffed. "I'm so invested in figuring out what's going on it's not even funny. Before it was just sad, but now it needs to end."

Bea stopped walking. Mason turned and waited to see what she would say. "It's good to hear you say that," she admitted. "I didn't realize how much it was effecting you."

"Really? I mean, you already know I organized the vigil. Who do you think came up with the idea to have it in the first place?" He asked, pointing at his own chest. He was displeased that she hadn't taken him more seriously. "These deaths are more than just tragedies. In fact, I don't even know what to call them because tragedies makes it sound like they're accidents, and at this point… I mean, come on. _This_ many in such a short time?"

Bea watched him carefully. "Suicides," she provided. "They've been calling them suicides."

Mason hesitated. He looked around, and seeing there were some students who stood near the entrance of the school and seemed to be waiting for someone to pick them up, he visibly held back what he really wanted to say. Instead, he said, "The vigil ended pretty quickly. It wasn't too late out and it was New Years, so a group of us went out to a diner to celebrate. Well… celebrate isn't the word I should use. We were all pretty shaken up about the news of the latest victim, so… more of a distraction, I guess.

"When we got there, I noticed Sasha sitting alone with a coffee and a slice of pie, not even eating. She let me sit with her for a few minutes and she told me she was waiting on someone she said she knew wasn't going to show. I didn't ask who and she didn't say. I offered her to come back to my friend Liam's place, because we were going to have a few drinks and just try to have a good time—you know, salvage the night. She agreed at first."

"Really?" Bea blinked and shook her head. "Wow. That's… Mason, that's really nice of you."

He shrugged. "I just wish she hadn't changed her mind. She said yes and came over to sit with the rest of my friends. Things seemed to be going well, but then they mentioned the latest victim and tried figuring out who it was and… I don't know, something changed. She wanted to leave, but after the news I didn't want her walking through town alone at night. We dropped her off at that motel." He shook his head and his face cleared from the darkness of the memory. Mason looked at Bea in confusion. "Why would she stay at a motel? Why wouldn't she just go home?"

"It's… complicated," Bea sighed. "There were a lot of things going on in her life that I would've thought would make it hard for her to relate to you guys."

"What do you mean?" He frowned.

"Mason, you're really nice," Bea conceded. "More than that, you seem like a great friend to have. I think you reaching out probably meant more to her than you'll ever know."

Mason blinked, stricken. He lowered his gaze and nodded at the ground. "It wasn't enough, though."

Bea kept her mouth shut because all she could think to say was _Sasha didn't actually kill herself because they aren't actually suicides._ How could she prove it? She couldn't. So she didn't say a word. She just touched his shoulder and offered him a smile, and Mason pulled out a brochure. He took a deep breath.

"So, in light of that, you mentioned something about putting on a funeral for Sasha because her sister is… in jail?"

Bea nodded. "Long story," she said. "She shot a guy. I'm sure it'll be in the papers soon enough. Don't ask. Are you in?"

"It's a good idea," Mason acknowledged. "And right up my alley, _obviously_. I was thinking about it, and I don't know if Sasha is religious at all, but if she isn't then maybe having the service at an alternative venue like this beach would be nice."

"Oh, Mason," she breathed, looking at the pictures of the white sand beach. "Do you think people would be willing to travel forty five minutes, though?"

"If we planned it right? Definitely." He hesitated. "The only thing is… it's not cheap. But I bet I could try to raise the money."

"You'd do that?" Bea asked.

Mason shrugged. "I can try."

She smiled at him and took him by the shoulder. "You and me? We're doing this."

They stood in the parking lot, bouncing ideas back and forth about who they could enlist to help. Bea said she would ask her brother if he knew any good, willing party planners—and if he might help spread the word. Mason pointed out that the music store Diane managed might have connections to some local musicians and wondered if they could put together some sort of concert.

The more they talked about it, the clearer the picture became. The biggest challenge would be timing it right. It was still cold out, and school started soon. The event itself didn't hinge on being at a beach, so if they needed to they could still use a church, or if worse came to worse, Bea figured she could use their moderately sized backyard. She hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Somehow they got onto the topic of rental cars. Mason took the opportunity to brag about the car that he'd managed to scrape enough money together to buy at the end of his freshman year.

He took her over to the car and they were in the middle of checking out the interior when he got a call. Tossing her the keys, he told her to test the heated seats for herself and told her he'd be right back.

Bea was poking at the GPS screen when a voice from outside made her jump and hit her head on the roof of a vehicle for the second time that day.

"Hey, lady, this isn't your car!"

A rather short, and very angry looking teenage boy was throwing his gym bag down on the parking lot to march over and grab the door of the car. "What are you doing? This is my friend's car! Get out!"

"Hey! Whoa!" she put her hands up and pointed down at the ignition. "I didn't break in, see? Those are his keys!"

"You stole his keys!" The kid violently assumed, and moved closer. "Don't make me drag you out, lady."

"All right!" She laughed. He glared and backed up, but didn't let go of the door as she slid out of the car and took two large steps away. "You might wanna… turn the car off."

"Give me one good reason not to call the cops," He demanded, and faltered as he looked her over. "Why are you wearing all black? Are you sure you're not a robber?"

"What? No! This is a dress! I wore it to a funeral!"

"You could just be saying that to get me to trust you!" He defensively asserted. "You're sitting in a car that doesn't belong to you! My _friend's_ car! You know what? You're not going anywhere. I'm gonna get the principal or… I'll call the cops!"

"I had permission! Mason will be back shortly and he can explain."

The boy hesitated. Still frowning, he pursed his lips and looked her over again, his eyes lingering on her dress suspiciously. He kept his gaze locked on hers in a clear warning as he moved forward to duck into the car and turn it off.

He closed the door, and turning back to look directly at her, made a show of lifting the remote into the air and locking it twice for good measure. Then, as though he was a guard, he crossed his arms and planted his feet firmly on the ground to watch over the car. "We'll just see what he has to say," He nodded.

She snorted. "Would you quit glaring at me?"

"No!" He pointed at her. "How did you know his name?"

"Because I know him!" She wanted to laugh, but somehow managed to swallow it. "He's helped me out a couple of times."

The boy narrowed his blue eyes until they were stuck on her every move. "Yeah, we'll see about that."

" _Okay_ ," she smirked.

"Humph."

"Liam?" Mason asked. He still held his phone in his hand as he approached. He looked at the way Liam stood between the car and Bea and snorted. "What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you!" The guy named Liam exclaimed, and gestured at Bea. "Do you know her?"

"Who, Bea? Yeah! I was showing her my car because hers is in the shop and she's trying to figure out what kind she wants to rent."

Liam blinked and gradually dropped his protective stance. "…Oh."

"Why did you look like you wanted to tackle her when I came up?"

"She was—" He started, pointing at her. Then he dropped his finger and scratched at the back of his head. "I mean, I thought she was trying to steal it, I guess."

Mason laughed. "Dude," He said.

"Hey!" Liam shouted. "You're _welcome!_ How about a thank you? What—what if I'd been right? I would've just saved you from losing your car!"

"Yeah, very heroic of you," Mason grinned with a roll of his eyes. "Give me my keys, okay?"

Liam snorted. Then, sheepishly he turned to Bea. "Sorry." He shrugged a shoulder. He looked her over again. "Did you really just get back from a funeral?"

She slowly nodded and Liam winced.

"Was it Debbie's?" Mason asked, and at Bea's nod of confirmation, he shook his head. "That's weird! I stopped by too, but I didn't see you there."

"I didn't stay long." Bea looked at Liam, who looked like a kicked puppy.

"Man, that sucks. I would've gone too, but I didn't know her, so it felt kind of… I don't know, fake, I guess. Anyways, sorry again." He stuck out his hand. "I'm Liam."

"Bea," she greeted, accepting his handshake. "Mason helps me out sometimes with the article I'm writing about the suicides."

"Oh, _you're_ the writer?" He pointed at her in question to Mason. "Yeah, he's like, your superfan. He used to cut out some of your articles and keep them in a binder."

Mason laughed awkwardly and took Liam by the shoulders. " _Buddy_ ," He said through clenched teeth. "That binder was a portfolio of award winning articles. There were more than just Bea's. You make it sound like I built a _shrine_ for her."

Liam put his hands up in surrender with an amused smirk. "Okay," he snorted, shrugging at Bea.

Mason sighed. "Don't you have practice?"

"Oh, no, I was actually just working out. Practice won't start until classes start on Thursday." He smiled innocently at Mason and then looked back at Bea. "So why are you guys hanging out now? Is this about Sasha?"

"Sort of," Bea explained, nudging Mason's shoulder. "Mason is going to help me organize a funeral for her."

"Wow," Liam looked to Mason, mildly concerned. "You're really going deep with this… uh, suicide thing. You okay?"

Mason waved him off. "Oh, yeah, it's nothing it's just… it's the right thing to do, you know?"

Liam nodded. "Cool, well, I'm always free to help however I can." He looked at Bea. "With interviews or whatever, too."

"Oh!" Mason gasped. He looked to Bea with a huge grin and took Liam by the shoulders. "Actually, that might work. See, Liam here is new to Beacon Hills, so, that makes him kind of like the shiny new toy."

Bea's eyes lit up and she turned to Liam with a slow smile spreading across her face. Liam looked between them, suddenly uncertain. "I am?"

"This is good," Bea agreed. "This is _really_ good."

* * *

 ** _Thank you guys so much for the favorites, follows and kind reviews! You have no idea how motivating it is to receive reviews like that. They really make it all worthwhile! So thank you again!_**

 ** _Sorry there wasn't more Derek or Peter this chapter, but the next one will include them; I swear!_**

 **Also, MASSIVE shout out to** JackieOh **for making wonderful fan art for this fic! If you'd like to see for yourself, you can go to this link by replacing "dot" with a period and taking out the spaces (I know the spaces are annoying but ffnet won't allow straight up links, so):**

fanficjackieoh dot tumblr dot com / post/163123710365/ casey-michaels-her-body-was-found-yesterday


	12. Chapter 12

**November 7, 2002**

 **Beacon Hills, CA**

 **The Arcade**

"You aren't even listening!" Derek argued.

Bea shook her head stubbornly and lifted the hammer to hit the weight as hard as she could. The meter flickered out at a pathetic forty out of a hundred and Bea scowled as she told him, "It's my birthday; I don't have to listen to you."

He pulled the hammer out of her reach with a haughty pout on his lips. "That excuse doesn't work on me. You do realize that, right?" When Bea didn't react, Derek tilted his head. "We share the same birthday!"

Giving him an unimpressed roll of her eyes, Bea crossed her arms and looked on petulantly.

"I'm serious, Bea. The bite is a gift," Derek explained, his eyes stuck intensely to hers. "It's the best thing I could possibly give you. Don't you get it? What I would be giving you, it's… what it _means_ is… It's the best gift you'd ever get for the rest of your _life!"_

"Oh yeah?" She challenged, as a nearby lottery machine trilled enthusiastically. She cocked her hip and crossed her arms. "What about next year? Don't you know you're supposed to get a better gift every year? What happens when it's our birthday a year from now and all you have to give me is a lame pair of socks or something?"

Derek gawked at her. "You _regifted_ me a deck of cards that the station gave you last year!"

Bea threw her hands up. "Yeah, and I taught you to play poker with those cards! Then you won my iPod from me on New Years! Remember _that?"_

"You should've just given me the iPod to begin with," Derek grumbled under his breath. He lifted the hammer over his head and hit the weight as hard as he dared. The light zipped up to the hundred and the bell dinged loudly.

"Give a man a fish, feed him for a day; teach a man to fish, _FEED HIM FOR LIFE,_ you ungrateful bitch!" Bea hollered. A young woman standing at the concession stand turned around to give the pair of them a dirty look and pulled a stroller in closer to her side. The toddler inside gurgled merrily and Bea promptly ignored them to glare at Derek.

"Exactly! _That's_ why you should take the bite!" Derek countered.

Bea's mouth clamped shut and she stood up straight. She grappled for an argument and before she could summon one, Derek quickly wagered, "If I beat you at the next game, you have to at least consider taking the bite."

Bea narrowed her eyes at him. "Only if I get to choose the game."

"That doesn't seem very fair," Peter interrupted, sauntering up to them with a smug expression on his face. The companionable mood was instantly lost in his presence. He looked on as Bea groaned in exasperation and then raised his eyebrows at Derek, who gave him a dull, unsurprised look. "Oh, I know! How about I choose the game?"

"No way!" Bea nearly shouted at him. "You'll cheat for sure!"

Peter tried and failed to look offended.

"How'd you find us?" Derek asked. "How'd you know we weren't in class?"

"Derek," Peter flatly said. "Give me a break." He didn't say anything more than that, but then, as Bea and Derek exchanged a guilty look, they supposed he didn't need to. Peter had always been good at predicting what the pair of them would get up to.

Peter took a breath as turned to look over all the games. "How about… that one?"

He pointed at a shooting game equipped with two screens and two guns. It was designed for two players to compete, and it was notoriously difficult, which explained why it was just about the only available game receptacle besides the lottery machines, and the bell, which were largely unused for similar reasons.

Derek agreed readily. "Piece of cake," He declared, making Bea's competitive streak take flight.

"You're on," she growled. Derek looked like he couldn't decide whether to be amused or smug, and he swaggered over to the game like he'd already won.

Peter watched as they inserted their tokens and took their positions. Derek winked at Bea, making her hold the plastic gun tighter and lean further into the screen as the game commenced.

By the end, Derek lowered his gun with a patronizing sigh. "Don't worry, Bea, we'll help you every step of the—"

He stopped talking when he realized that his screen flashed red and played depressing music at him, declaring him the loser.

With a jerk, he popped his head over to Bea's screen and gawked at the thrilling gold and green letters that glowed _WINNER! WINNER!_

A replay of her last kill shot filled the screen and her little character did a taunting victory dance. Bea placed the plastic gun back into its slot and turned to raise her eyebrows at Derek. "You were saying?"

"What the heck!?" Derek gawped. He found it impossible that she could have ever won any competition against him at all—especially not one that required hand-eye coordination—for obvious reasons. Derek looked helplessly at Peter.

Peter shook his head. "Wow," He winced. "That was painful to watch."

Derek's chest puffed out indignantly. "Rematch!" He declared, and grabbed Bea by the shoulders to take her place at the blue terminal. "But first, switch me spots."

"As if the color of your player has anything to do with it whatsoever," She scoffed, rolling her eyes.

"Now, wait just a second Derek," Peter reasoned, earning a filthy glare from his nephew. "She won fair and square. What makes you think you get another shot?"

"It's fine," Bea coolly nodded, unapologetically confident in a way that seemed to irritate Derek. She looked at him from the corner of her eye as she inserted another token. "I'm ready for another round."

Derek inserted his token and tucked in for the starting sequence, visibly more aggressive this time. He hit every target but one. When his screen flashed red yet again, he leaped over the barrier in disbelief and watched as Bea's character, this time dressed in red, wiggled its butt triumphantly.

"I don't get it!" He shouted. "Y-You're just a human!"

Bea stiffened at that very real barb and Peter gave a neutral wave of his hand. "Now, now, nobody likes a sore loser, Derek," He tutted. Derek's face flushed red and Peter clasped his hands behind his back as Bea collected her two new strips of tickets. "So _here_ is my birthday gift to both of you. The way I see it, you have two opportunities before you."

Derek shifted on his feet with his fists clenched and tried not to glare too harshly at Bea, who was trying her best not to show how intrigued she was by Peter at that moment.

"I watched you two play before I decided to approach and noticed some interesting things," Peter started.

" _Creepy_ ," Bea muttered. Peter's eyes cut her way.

Derek shushed her. "Let him finish!"

She huffed and Peter continued. "Derek is good at the games that challenge strength; that much is obvious. Bea is shockingly adept at the precision games, a skill I'm sure she has her father to thank for," He added, glancing at Bea, who lifted her chin without comment. "Just imagine what you two could do if you put your skills together," He started, growing in intensity and drama with his hands rising in the air.

Bea looked at Derek. "Air hockey?"

Derek eagerly nodded, and together they left Peter standing with his hands still out before him. He quickly dropped his stance to glare and sigh loudly. "Amateurs."

Still, as they made their way around the arcade they didn't totally discount Peter's advice. In fact, slowly and in their own way, they did exactly what he'd been suggesting—they just made a game of it, and by the end they arrived at the prize counter with two considerably large armfuls of tickets.

The worker behind the counter gawked. Derek's collection was larger than Bea's, but Bea's was no less impressive.

"No, we didn't cheat," Derek bluntly reassured him. He pointed at Bea, and for good measure, mentioned that, "It's her birthday."

The worker blinked rapidly at the pair of them, gazing lingering on the only adult in the group, Peter. Peter didn't comment or outwardly add anything. The worker looked at Bea, who was peeking at the prizes hanging on the wall thoughtfully. Finally, he stuttered in a cracking voice, "H-Happy birthday."

"Thanks," Bea beamed. "How much for that inflatable trident?"

The young worker looked over his head where she pointed and Derek propped his chin on his hand, his elbow resting on the counter. "So… do you count tickets by hand, or…?"

Jumping to action, the guy started to collect Derek's pile of tickets first. He quickly bent to retrieve the few rogue strips that fell to the floor as he explained that there was a machine that he used to count for him and it should only take… a few moments. He thought.

In the mean time, the two fourteen year olds debated the worthier prize: candy, or toys and trinkets. Peter pointed out that they could have _both_ and Bea decided she liked that thought process. After all, birthdays meant that you could have your cake and eat it too, right?

As they walked out with their prizes, Bea pushed a small stuffed dog into Peter's hands. He stopped walking to stare at it like it was infected.

He looked at her blankly.

"I think she's trying to thank you," Derek interjected, vaguely amused.

Peter rigidly began to reject the toy when Bea held her hand out stubbornly. "It's more of a guilt trip," she clarified. "Don't say anything to Talia or my parents about us ditching class."

Peter's face changed and was suddenly so free of distaste that it _had_ to be an act. He looked positively complacent. Bea thought that Lucius Malfoy himself couldn't have pulled it off better.

"Precise and cunning," Peter noted. "If a little overconfident. You _would_ make a good werewolf."

It didn't exactly feel like a compliment. Bea singed him with a glare because his simple, seemingly approving comment launched Derek back into the very topic she'd worked so hard to get him to forget in the first place. Peter merely gazed back at her with fake innocence, like he couldn't possibly understand what he'd done to earn such a look of scorn.

* * *

 **January 2012**

 **Beacon Hills, CA**

 **Derek's Loft**

Bea held up the stack of pizza boxes in her arms as she came through the large, sliding doors of the loft. "I brought pizza!" She announced. "And some kind of fruity beer the pizza place is selling now. I think it's just a wine cooler."

Peter and Derek sat at the table by the window again, and Peter leaned over to Derek to mutter, "I smell bribery."

"Nope!" Bea chirped. "That's the broccoli. There's also mushrooms. For me I got meat lover's with extra cheese and olives," She beamed. "You can eat the grass."

Bea separated the boxes and slid one in front of Peter, watching as he opened it to stare blankly, almost like he couldn't believe she'd paid money to have broccoli put on pizza _just_ for the chance to stick it in his face. "And the crust is gluten-free," she added, smiling at the way he sniffed at the pizza. "I made sure it was vegan approved."

"We get it," Derek quipped. "You're petty."

He rolled his eyes with Peter as she made a big show of taking a large bite of cheesy, greasy pizza from her box. She offered a slice to Derek and Peter sighed heavily and asked her what she was doing at the loft.

"I've been surrounded by fifteen and sixteen year old sophomore boys all day," She explained. "I needed to cleanse my pallet."

She reached over to grab a bottle of beer out of the six-pack she'd brought, cracking the lid off against the side of the table. "Sophomores?" Derek frowned. "What are you doing talking to sophomores? Your brother is a junior."

She was surprised he remembered that much detail, and she expressed this by raising her eyebrows at him. Derek took a large bite of pizza while he waited for her answer. "Well," She started, leaning back to finish chewing the slice she'd basically just stuffed into her mouth. Peter looked on in poorly disguised distaste and she fought back a smirk. "I kind of volunteered to organize Sasha's funeral with this kid named Mason because her sister's in prison, and there's no one else left to do it."

After the short explanation, Bea took a moment to drain most of the bottle of beer.

Peter and Derek communicated silently via sharp look, and Derek looked back at Bea. She burped a little and Peter finally pushed away from the table as though he'd had enough. Derek swallowed a grin as Peter went to stand in the safety of the dark corner by the window, perching on the sill.

"God, I'm more of a man than you are, Peter," Bea lightly teased, and Peter rolled his eyes without commenting. If anything his nonresponse only annoyed Bea, and she frowned. It was no fun if he didn't retaliate.

"Which sophomores are helping you?" Derek wanted to know.

Bea gave him an odd look. "I doubt you know them."

"You came over with pizza and brought up the fact that you're organizing a funeral. I think it's a given that we'll have questions," Peter pointed out.

Bea sighed. "Mason Hewitt and Liam Dunbar," She relayed. "I've got plans for both of them."

"Oh?" Peter pressed with interest.

"Mason is going to help organize the funeral. Liam is going to help organize the guest list."

"You're making a _guest_ list?" Derek said, surprised.

"So this is an invitation-only event," Peter surmised. "Interesting tactic..."

Bea shook her head. "Not exactly. It won't be by invitation. I just meant it's going to be Liam's job to spread the word."

"Does your brother know about this?" Derek asked.

She frowned. "What's with the interest in my brother? That's the second time you've mentioned him in less than five minutes."

Derek stiffened and Peter watched to see how it would play out. Bea's frown deepened until Derek finally responded. "Not an interest in your brother, an interest in what your goal is. If you wanted high school students to help out why not just go for him?"

"Because," Bea said, "he recently managed to piss off some guests I'd really like to attend the funeral. Friends of Debbie Moore."

"How'd he accomplish that?" Derek asked.

Bea rolled her eyes. "Don't ask. The long and short of it is that he went behind my back to meddle with my investigation and he offended some pretty important sources to the story."

"Of course he did," Derek commented. "I remember the stories you used to tell me about him. I'm not surprised, are you?"

Bea sighed. " _No_ ," she grumbled. "But he certainly didn't make my job any easier. Anyways, I'll probably still ask for his help. Apparently Scott McCall has climbed a few rungs on the social ladder since I've been around, asthma and all." She sighed to the pizza and shook her head, taking another large drink. "Things sure have changed."

"Well… sometimes kids grow out of asthma, don't they?" Derek suggested, fiddling with the bent beer cap that Bea'd discarded on the ground. He straightened it out between his fingers. "Puberty hits humans almost as hard as us."

She shrugged. "Maybe. Actually, come to think of it, I haven't seen Scott use his inhaler once since I've been back…" Bea frowned to herself. "Huh. That's weird. He used to suck on that thing like a pacifier."

"How are you going to pay for this funeral?" Peter suddenly interjected, distracting Bea. "You said something about Sasha's sister being in jail, which leads me to believe maybe they don't have money to spare at the moment. So how are you going to afford this?"

"Oh, uh…" Bea sighed heavily and set down her empty bottle of beer. "I don't know," she admitted. "Mason said something about a fundraiser but a proper funeral can cost around ten thousand dollars at least, and… I just don't know how we could gather that kind of money in a under a week."

"You don't have to," Derek suddenly declared, looking away from Peter to nod at Bea. "We'll pay."

Bea choked on air. "What?" She sputtered.

Peter didn't outwardly react. He watched Derek closely and Derek reached to offer Bea another bottle of beer. He waited to elaborate until she'd taken a drink to settle her sporadic coughs."It's not like we don't have the money," Derek reasoned. "It's for a good cause and it might help you get closer to solving the suicides... Maybe even stop them altogether."

He nodded as though deciding it.

"We'll pay for the funeral. Right, Peter?"

Peter appeared to be carefully considering the matter. He had his finger at his chin and he looked up at his name, his eyes flying first to Derek and then to Bea, who looked on like she didn't know _what_ to expect. "On one condition," Peter finally concluded. "Make sure to bring your brother... I would love to finally meet him."

Bea stood like she didn't know what to do with herself or what to say about the unexpected generosity, and behind her, Derek made a face that said he didn't know whether to punch Peter in the face or throw him off the balcony. Peter looked back innocently as Bea spluttered out her thanks.

* * *

"This was the right move," Mason suddenly declared. He stood beside Bea on the dock at the Martins' lake house. In just a couple of days, the property would be transformed into a memorial service.

"Yeah," Bea agreed, almost like she was surprised. She looked away from the murky water to peer up at the boathouse with a nod. "Honestly, I was a little skeptical about having the service on private property, but this… this could work."

"A _little_ skeptical?" Stiles loudly snorted as he emerged on the other side of the dock. Malia followed closely behind him. "You spent all night yesterday arguing with that hotel in town to get your deposit back on the courtyard _you_ rented out for three days."

"It was a back up plan!" Bea defended. "How was I supposed to know how huge the lake house would be?"

"How many people are we expecting to show up, again?" Malia wondered.

"It's hard to say," Mason said. "Could be one hundred, could be two hundred."

"Could be more," Bea added. "We're prepared for anything."

"We're _prepared_ for the entire county." Stiles crossed his arms and didn't even try to hide his smug expression. "I told you this place would work."

"Hello?" Called a new voice. Lydia Martin came on the dock, her boots thudding over the wood loudly. "There you are!"

Stiles shifted beside Malia and said, "What is it, Lydia?"

"Not you," she dismissed, turning to Bea. "Bea. I don't remember if we decided what color flowers to use for the tree decorations."

Stiles gawked and Bea looked away from her speechless brother, feeling somewhat satisfied that Lydia had unknowingly knocked him down a peg. "I thought we finally agreed on hanging lanterns?"

"Well, we did," Lydia granted. "But they're the kind of lanterns that have a flower arrangement on them."

Bea blinked. "So… we're doing flowers _and_ lanterns?" She clarified. Bea had argued for the decorations around the casket to be lanterns, and Lydia had insisted there should be flowers. Eventually, Bea thought she'd won that argument by allowing Lydia to have full control of how the casket itself would be decorated.

Lydia tilted her head. "Is that a problem?"

Bea's eye twitched. "No," She sighed. Truth be told, she didn't feel like arguing about the details anymore. "In fact: I'm officially putting you in charge of all aspects of design."

If the others were surprised, they didn't let on. Lydia looked very pleased and she smiled widely at Bea. "I appreciate that, Bea." She pointed up the hill. "Are you busy? If I'm in charge I'd like to discuss some other plans."

 _In charge of **designs**_ , Bea thought, but what she said was, "I'll follow you up there."

Lydia nodded, and then pointed at Mason. "You," she said, curling her finger at him in a beckoning gesture. "Come with me."

Mason looked startled. He glanced at Bea and she shrugged. Hesitantly, he followed.

As they departed, Malia shook her head. "I don't see how the color of the flowers matter."

Bea snorted at that. "We should get up there before she has the whole place torn apart."

Stiles ventured to explain the relevancy of flower arrangements in funerals to Malia as they made their way up to the house. Though Bea didn't know all the gruesome details, Stiles and Scott had felt it prudent to enlighten her to Malia's… situation.

Apparently the girl had been forced to survive in the wilderness for eight years following a car accident that killed her entire family—save her father. The girl didn't remember much, and Bea thought she'd heard Lydia use the term 'dissociate' a couple of times, so she knew whatever happened to Malia was pretty traumatic. It certainly explained a lot about Malia's behavior. From the moment Bea met her, she felt like Malia was somehow… feral.

Her brother seemed to take great patience in giving Malia the tools she needed to cope with living as normally as possible. In a weird way, it reminded Bea of how she and Stiles had been with their mother when things were really bad. It didn't surprise her that Stiles went out of his way for Malia, but in some aspects, it worried her.

Still, she figured it wasn't her place to make that sort of call anymore, so she tried her best to stay out of it and focused on planning the funeral. Despite the fact that the event was paid for, the group still made efforts to cut back on unnecessary expenses.

The company they hired to decorate and cater the event specialized in memorial services, and they offered a package deal for an outside event that included all the seating and furniture they would need. Bea and Lydia quickly figured out they could save a large chunk of money if they cleared the venue out themselves. And so, that was what they'd been working on for the last two days.

There was a large expanse of land in the backyard that proved to be the perfect spot to place the casket and seats. The Martins spared no expense in the presentation of their vacation home. The backyard had a large wooden deck complete with a finished patio. They were clearing the furniture on the patio and moving it to the nearby barn that the Martins used for storage.

Lydia had dragged Mason to Scott and Kira, and together, the four of them lifted a huge glass table from the patio and staggered along the wooden deck to the steps. They set the table down, took a breath, and carried it towards the stone path that led to the barn.

"So what's your boss say about all this?" Stiles suddenly wondered aloud. He trailed behind Bea with Malia keeping close to his side.

"Cooper thinks it's a great opportunity to network," Bea explained.

Stiles snorted. "Network?"

"Yeah, I mean, it's still my job to piece together some sort of explanation for all of these suicides," Bea reasoned. "And in order to do that I need to be able to talk to the people who were close to the victims."

"Why?" Malia frowned.

"To develop relationships with them." Bea and Stiles came to stand in the entrance of the barn. The others set the glass table down and Malia shook her head.

"Why?" She asked again.

"So they feel comfortable answering questions for me," Bea explained.

Malia shook her head. "I don't get it. What questions?"

"I'm here to figure out what's going on with the suicides," Bea finally clarified. "My job is... basically, I investigate topics of interest. The biggest story I ever investigated was about a laundering scheme with the Russian mafia. My paper has also cracked the story about a child prostitution ring that some notable politicians were involved in. Basically, we catch wind of shady things that might be happening around the area and we report those stories in a newspaper for the public to read."

"Okay, but why _this?_ " Malia shook her head. "Why would someone want to read about this sort of thing?"

"Well..." Bea slowly said. "The theory is that these aren't just simple suicides. There are too many happening too close together for it to be plausible at this point."

Malia shrugged. "What else could it be?"

"I don't feel comfortable guessing at this point," Bea dodged. "I don't want to jump to conclusions. I have too many unanswered questions."

"Like what?"

"Like _why_ would six teenagers who have their whole lives ahead of them jump off a bridge to end it all?" Lydia asserted, making Malia blink thoughtfully.

"And since she can't ask the suicide victims why they jumped, Bea has to go to the people who were closest to them," Stiles continued. "They're the only ones who might have insight about what might've motivated them."

"I still don't get it," Malia shrugged again.

Bea turned to see if she was serious. At the annoyed confusion on the girl's face, Bea glanced at Stiles, who wore an identical expression of carefully crafted patience. "Well..." Stiles lightly started. "You can't just expect people to confess all the secrets they know about their friends. Right?"

Before Malia could even speak the question aloud, Bea elaborated. "Put yourself in _their_ shoes. Someone close to you just died. They say it was suicide. How does that make you feel?"

Malia's face flashed with many emotions, but the most notable one was frustration. "Suicide means they did it on purpose, right?"

Stiles hesitantly nodded.

Malia shrugged. "Then I feel better off without someone so weak to drag me down."

Behind them, Kira and Mason gasped loudly, and Bea just narrowly managed to avoid outwardly flinching at the insensitive proclamation. Stiles cringed and shook his head. "No..." He sighed. "Malia..."

"What?" She shrugged, this time irritably. "They obviously didn't care enough about how it would make me feel to let it stop them from doing it."

"Maybe we should table this conversation for now," Lydia wisely suggested. Everyone was floundering for how to respond to Malia and it took a moment for the group to switch gears. Lydia's rational intervention helped, though, as she said, "The patio still needs to be cleared _today_. There will be plenty of time for moral lessons with Malia _later_."

Bea sighed and went to follow Lydia as she strode down the path, and one by one, they returned to work.

At some point in the afternoon, Bea was helping Scott to carry a heavy iron bench down the path and she asked him to stop. She wiped her sweaty forehead with the back of her hand. "I thought January was supposed to be cold," Bea panted.

Scott used his sleeve to clear away some of the sweat on his face and chuckled. "It's cold, we're just doing a lot of heavy lifting."

"Hey," she breathed, capturing Scott's attention. She frowned at him. "Where's your inhaler?"

He blinked. Nearby, Stiles fumbled with a vase in his hand. "Uhh, I think it's…" He turned to look off in the direction of the house. "It's in my bag, why? Do you need it?"

She laughed. "Maybe," As if to prove her point, she took a deep, cleansing breath before she dropped the next part. "And I don't even have asthma."

Scott smiled, his eyes flitting over his shoulder either in the direction of the barn, or more likely, at Stiles, who was doing a poor job of pretending not to listen very carefully. "It's surprising that you don't need it," she finally pushed, sensing that she would have to be direct to get an answer out of him.

Scott shrugged. "Er, well, lacrosse has really helped me learn to work without it, so…" He shrugged again. "I guess I don't need it as often anymore."

Bea nodded. "Really? That must be nice. I bet you're saving some money thanks to that."

Suddenly, Scott turned his head to the side. He looked down with a frown. "Do you hear that?"

Bea made a face. "What?"

"The radio," Scott elaborated. Bea's eyebrows cinched together and Stiles quickly jumped in.

"Yeah! I hear it," He agreed, though Bea could hear nothing besides the quiet secluded sounds of the countryside and the lake. "I totally hear it. Can't you hear that? It's really faint."

"Guys!" Lydia called from the barn. "Get over here!"

Scott didn't look at Bea as they left the iron bench to go in the barn. Inside, Lydia, Mason and Malia stood around the far wall. The closer they got, the more Bea could hear what sounded like a radio station. It got louder as Lydia turned a knob.

Lydia looked at Mason in question. "That's you speaking, isn't it?"

Mason nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! I didn't know they'd already have it on the air! They said it would start tomorrow at lunch, not today."

"It sounds like they're talking about the memorial service," Stiles noted. " _This_ memorial service! Dude, who _are_ you? How'd you get an _advertisement_ on the radio?"

Malia and Scott made noises of agreement, and as Mason started to explain his connection to an intern who's working at the station who got him in to record late last night, Bea focused with laser-like intensity on the side of Scott's head.

As though he could sense it, he turned around. His smile faded at the look Bea was giving him and Stiles took notice as well. Suddenly, Lydia withdrew her hand from the radio and accidentally knocked a jar off the wall.

Everyone jumped back as the glass shattered. Lydia gasped loudly and Scott asked if everyone was okay. Malia grumbled at something, and Stiles immediately took her by the shoulder to lead her out. "I got it!" He hollered. "It's just a little knick. Lydia?"

"It's fine! Stiles, it's just a little cut. It'll heal!" Malia's voice was cut off as Stiles shoved her almost violently through the door of the barn. Bea's whole world seemed to teeter before it rocked unsteadily back into place and she didn't dare move a muscle as her mind reeled. It'll _heal?_ It'll _heal,_ she'd said.

Lydia's glossy curls bounced as she rushed to lead the way up to the lake house to take care of Malia's small injury, and Scott and Mason started to clear away the glass.

Bea could think of a million reasons it _couldn't_ be true. Stiles, Lydia and Malia returned to continue helping shortly after they'd disappeared. Malia wore a fresh bandage across her ankle and Bea did her best not to stare at it.

As the afternoon wore on and turned to evening, she watched, and noticed a bunch of other small things about them—and once she saw it, she couldn't imagine how she'd ever missed it.

She'd have to be blind, deaf _and_ stupid to not see the signs. Scott's miraculous recovery from asthma. His startling transformation from scrawny freshman to boy-next-door junior. The way he carried most of the weight without complaint when he moved the furniture. The fact that while they carried a table outside, a good forty feet away from the barn, he'd somehow managed to catch the sound of the small radio inside on the far wall—and caught it well enough to know that it was Mason's _recorded_ voice and not just him talking to the others.

The signs were there. They were small, but they were present, and as far as Bea was concerned, they were _everything_. She should be focused on organizing the funeral, but she couldn't think of anything else. She _had_ to know. She had to prove it.

So, she took her camera out of her bag and approached Scott and Stiles. They stood on the patio near the large stainless steel grill, debating on whether to move it or leave it. Bea lifted the camera to her eye, taking care to make sure the flash was on, and cheered, "Say cheese!"

The speed at which Scott jumped out of frame was startling. He caught her off guard almost as much as she had him, and Bea lowered the camera to narrow her gaze knowingly at him. He looked stricken, his eyes wide as he forced himself not to back away another step, caught between playing it cool and escaping the eye of the camera. Or perhaps Bea's eye all together.

"Whoa!" Stiles interrupted, putting his hands out. "Hey, what's with the sneak attack?"

Bea waved the camera. "I want some candid shots of you two," She smiled. "You know, for the article."

The others started to notice. Mason was beaming. "That's a great idea!" He agreed, and jumped down from the ledge of the half-wall at the other end of the patio to join the rest of them, oblivious to the rising tension in the group. "Does that thing have a timer? Let's get a group picture!"

Malia, with her bandaged ankle, came up beside Bea to glare at the camera. Kira kept her distance, staying near the garden with a suspiciously wide-eyed expression on her face. Her eyes were stuck to Scott, who was looking at Stiles.

"Here," Stiles offered. "Give the camera to me. I'll take one of you and Mason and Lydia—you guys are the ones who are doing all the planning—"

"No," Bea gestured around the patio. "It's my article; I don't have to be in the pictures. Everyone else, get together."

She waited while everyone but Malia and Kira got together. She could've made a big deal about them sitting it out, but she was too focused on Scott to bother.

"One, two—" She snapped the picture. Squinting down at the result, she shook her head. "Nope, Scott's eyes are closed."

Mason laughed and nudged Scott in the shoulder. "Dude, same."

Bea ignored them and called out before she took another one. "Scott!" She called. "Come on, man!"

Stiles and Scott exchanged a wary look. "It's… you know what?" Stiles tried again. "He's just very camera shy, actually and—"

Bea snapped another picture, and Lydia interjected at this point. "Maybe it's the flash," She suggested through clenched teeth. "I'm practically blind at this point, and besides, it's five o'clock. You don't really _need_ the flash, do you?"

"The patio casts a pretty big shadow," Bea argued, unwilling to relent.

"Kira," Lydia said, pointing at the girl who still hovered by the farthest wall of the patio. "Hit that light switch, please."

Kira immediately swiped at the switch and a few lights popped on overhead. Scott looked anywhere but at Bea and Stiles's shoulders were tense. At that point, Mason was catching on to the weird atmosphere. He looked to Bea, who lifted the camera again.

The flash barely had time to flare when the camera was suddenly knocked out of her hands. It hit the ground… _hard_. Pieces of it scattered across the wood, and everyone gawked at Malia, who frowned at Bea and the broken camera.

Bea slowly lifted her head. "Are you kidding me?" She exclaimed, at Stiles, whose hand covered his mouth, and Scott, who looked like a deer caught in headlights. "You have _got_ to be kidding me!"

All hell broke loose. Kira immediately went to help Mason start gathering all the broken pieces of the camera, and while Bea was busy closing in on Scott and Stiles, Lydia grabbed Malia by the wrist to drag her off the patio.

Stiles rambled so fast he didn't even take a breath, spewing some excuse about why Malia would knock her camera out of her hand and how it wasn't her fault because she didn't know how to appropriately deal with uncomfortable situations yet. Bea threw her arm around Scott's neck to force him to walk with her up the path, Stiles hot on their heels.

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 ** _(A/N): Thank you for following and favoriting this story, and thank you so much for all the kind reviews! :D They keep me going!_**


	13. Chapter 13

_**Whoaaa, it's been a lot longer than I anticipated! Lol! Sorry. Life happened quick, big and in a hurry. I moved out of my parent's house and I'm still trying to learn how to properly adult. I'm not totally content with the last part of the chapter but I think it's about as good as it's going to get for now. I'll try to update soon!**_

 _ **Thank you for the kind reviews, and all the favorites and follows!**_

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 **January 2012**

 **Beacon Hills, CA**

 **The Lake House**

The barn wasn't terribly far from the patio, really. It was tall, musty, and now, it was full of patio furniture. The door groaned loudly in their silence as Bea heaved it closed and turned to face Scott and Stiles with her hands on her hips.

They stood apart from each other warily, weighing their gazes, measuring the expressions on their faces, trying to figure out what each person knew and what move to make next. Bea didn't even really know where to begin. Her concern was so overwhelming it almost made it difficult to speak.

Right now, she couldn't keep her eyes off Stiles, because she was panicked that he might… that he could be… that somehow, despite all the lengths she'd gone to for so many years, he'd managed to find his way into the supernatural realm and… there would be no way to fix it, if it was true. The results would be irreversible. But she didn't know if it was true yet. She held onto that small consolation and slowly approached Stiles.

He watched her, confused, guarded, his face changing at what he saw in her expression. His defensive posture dropped and he looked almost regretfully at Bea, letting her look all over him, accepting the familial concern she poured over him with a closed face.

"How did you know?" His voice belied his emotions and cracked. He looked absolutely shattered; like he was just as surprised and disappointed that Bea figured it out.

"It's easy to spot if you know what to look for." She studied his eyes, his face, making frantic comparisons at what she observed against the face of a much younger Stiles in her mind. She tried to discern if they were the type of changes she'd expect to see after a werewolf bite.

Stronger features? Yes. Sharper angles, a more defined jaw, a larger nose, and an almost complete transformation that went much deeper than just his facial features. He looked at her, his mouth glued shut, and the way he frowned was almost… like he expected the absolute worst. Like he knew what she saw when she looked at him and he had no reassurances to offer her. He looked… tired. Defeated.

And she could see that he'd run out of excuses to throw; that he realized that no matter what elaborate lies he could come up with, it wouldn't stick. That suggested a deeper maturity that could only come from experience, something he certainly hadn't had when she last thought to check.

No, the whitewashed person before her was not the brother she remembered. He was not the young, overeager, naïve boy who arrogantly assumed he was wilier than everyone around him. He'd seen things he didn't understand and couldn't explain—gone through events he had no answers for and survived.

She also realized, then, that Stiles had been wearing a carefully constructed mask when he was around her ever since she'd been back. At least, after he seemed to forgive her for leaving in the first place and they'd started speaking again.

He'd done a good job of tricking her, too. Truly, she never suspected a thing, never considered he could have… she'd assumed the subtle changes she might have noticed were because of the grief he undoubtedly felt from losing a close friend like Allison.

Bea knew now that it went deeper than that. So, so much deeper. Things happened to her brother, bad things. She hadn't been here to witness or protect him from any of it. That was her job, as an older sister, and one she'd always taken very seriously.

Bea took him by the cheek. She felt her eyes ache with regret and shook her head, and Stiles dropped his gaze almost shamefully. "Mickey…" She murmured. "What happened?"

Her brother sucked in a nearly inaudible breath at the open-ended question. For a moment, he looked pitifully vulnerable as he allowed his older sister to fuss over him and she watched as an array of answers flashed through his eyes. None of them, apparently, were good enough explanations, because he stayed silent. Stiles squeezed his eyes shut.

"How much do you know?" Scott interrupted, pulling Bea's attention away from Stiles for a moment.

She withdrew her hand from his cheek and shook her head. "Apparently nothing." She could practically feel the frustration radiate from Scott at the non-answer, and Bea sighed. "You were bitten," She assumed.

Scott looked past her, recalling some dark memory, and nodded. "It happened right before our sophomore year started. The night before, actually."

She swallowed thickly, her question charged with passion. " _How?"_

Scott looked to Stiles at that. Her brother looked tired, and he almost stumbled as he collapsed in the iron bench she and Scott had carried inside. He sighed and slouched forward with his arms resting on his knees.

"Remember the body the jogger found in the woods." It wasn't a question. Stiles knew she remembered, or at least that she _should_ remember, being that he _called_ her about it.

" _That_?" She realized. Then, she got angry. "That's not funny. That's…" she made a noise of disgust. "That's so _typical!_ I _told_ you not to get involved! I told you it was too dangerous! Stiles!" She almost stomped her foot. "The body was torn in half, Stiles! You don't… you don't go _searching_ for that kind of trouble! You knew something terrible happened to her! Bodies don't just _fall apart_ on their own! It was a rabid animal at worst, and a crazy _lunatic_ at best! There's _no way_ you didn't know whatever it was could still have been out there! Dad raised us to be smarter than that. You _knew_ what you could've been walking into, and you went anyway."

"It was a mistake," Scott agreed with a wince, though Stiles' face was unreadable. He looked passive, despite his sister's fervent scolding, still somehow strained from the moment they'd shared earlier while his friend acknowledged their idiocy. "We never should have gone out there that night," Scott declared.

"Why?" she demanded, splitting her glare between the two of them, dividing the blame equally between them. " _Why_ did you go?"

Scott looked at Stiles, and… Bea thought her head might explode when they could only shrug. "We were trying to find the body."

"Why?" Before she could launch into another tirade, her brother interrupted.

"It was stupid, okay?" He admitted. "It was reckless, and dangerous, and you know what? We got lucky."

Bea's head went light with disbelief. She gaped, and even Scott looked uncertainly at his friend. "Uh…" Scott started. He glanced at Bea. "…Yeah." It wasn't so much an agreement as a verbal shrug.

She didn't even bother to form a response to what she considered a moronic statement. She simply glared at her brother, who stubbornly persisted.

"Either one of us could've been killed that night, but we weren't. Scott got bitten, sure, but… at least he didn't die! And, I don't know how much you know about the bite, but he _could_ have. His body could've rejected it, but it didn't. At least he can stand here today and admit his mistake."

Bea narrowed her eyes. It was a very forgiving way of looking at the consequences, and Bea wasn't so sure she agreed. She chose to ignore it for then, and looked to Scott. "Who was it? Do you know who bit you?"

The energy of the room changed. Scott's face grew darker and he looked away. "Peter Hale."

Everything stopped. The world shrank and drained away and Bea stood in shock at the revelation. For a moment, she was sure she'd misheard. "Come again?"

Stiles was watching her closely. Scott hesitated, and this time he said it slower. "Peter Hale."

Bea felt the cold, sharp, cruel twist of betrayal like a knife in her back. Her heart raced and her stomach shrank uncomfortably. Suddenly, she had to sit. She stumbled back until a table stopped her in her tracks, and she fumbled to lean against it.

"Bea… what's going on?" It was Stiles asking, but his question only served to irritate her anxiety further. She choked out what might've been a bitter scoff and suddenly hung her head. Stiles looked at the way she gripped the edge of the table, and Scott inched a half a step towards her, his hand up like he approached a panicked animal.

"It's okay," Scott assured. "It… happened a while ago, I mean… it's okay now. I'm fine. Really."

Suddenly, Bea felt like crying. She covered her face and shook her head. She couldn't believe this. This… how could he? How could he have done this? And… _Derek!_ How could _he_ —he must have known! He…

Her hands fell from her face. The questions poured from her rapidly after that.

"What about now? Is he your alpha?"

Stiles couldn't help but snort at that, but stopped dead in his tracks at the intensity of the glare his sister tossed at him. His amusement dried up as Scott immediately shook his head.

"Well he's not _dead_ ," She snarled, a vortex of emotions swirling inside her. Betrayal and disbelief battled for dominance. "So what happened?"

"It's kind of a long story—" Scott stopped talking at the look Bea treated him with. Soberly, he accepted that he wasn't getting out of this, regardless of how _long_ it took. " _Okay_. Well, Peter isn't anyone's alpha now. He's a beta."

"Or arguably an omega," Stiles pondered. Unperturbed by Scott's curious look and Bea's frown, he shrugged. "It's a little ambiguous."

"Explain," She demanded.

They stared on. Apparently they didn't know how to begin.

"Okay," Scott slowly agreed. "Well…"

"After Scott was bitten…" Stiles stopped midsentence and tried to start again. "It took a while for us to figure out who the alpha _was_."

"At first we thought it was Derek," Scott admitted.

"Derek…" Bea murmured, her eyes glazing over slightly. She was suddenly inexplicably sad. At that moment, she wasn't sure if she could trust her oldest friend anymore, and it upset her greatly. She almost couldn't bear to think about it.

Stiles was the one to react. "You _know_ them, don't you? Peter and Derek. How? I mean—how much _do_ you know?"

She looked at him oddly. Stiles sensed that he should already know the answer to his own question, and it irritated him. He frowned at her. "Stiles, come on." She shook her head. "Derek? Hello? My friend. From school. My _best_ friend." The proclamation was somewhat pain-filled and raw. Stiles' face completely changed to that of shock and his jaw dropped. "Yeah! Now you know how I feel!"

"Derek _Hale_ is _your_ Derek?! You _knew?_ " he accused. "This whole time, you knew! And you never said _anything!?"_

"No!" She fiercely asserted. "I never said a word! I wouldn't! I would _never_ want to pull you into this! Not into…" she took a breath, her mind filled with more than just werewolves. She knew, from spending so much time around the Hales, that the supernatural went much deeper than werewolves, spread much farther than just their little corner of California. "Not that it mattered in the end. You found out anyways, didn't you?" She scoffed to herself and shook her head. "Of course you would."

"Then you know," Scott guessed. "I mean, you have to know _some_ , right? If you were friends with Derek?"

"I know more than you might think," Bea allowed. "But… I've been gone for almost _seven years_ now, guys. And apparently a lot has changed. I don't know anything that's happened between you and the Hales! Fuck, I mean—last I knew, Peter was supposed to be in a coma. Now all of the sudden he's awake and healthy and—he was an _alpha_ —but now he's a beta, or an omega, or _whatever_ the fuck! It…" She shook her head. "It's like _I've_ been the one in the coma." She continued to shake her head. "I can't believe this."

"Yeah, well, your pal Peter went on a bit of a rampage," Stiles bitterly said, and Bea shot him a nasty glare that he deflected with a flat, unimpressed look. "He _was_ in a coma. Until he did what werewolves tend to do. He _healed_. And when he was strong enough, he started roaming around—we guess—and eventually Derek and Laura caught wind of an alpha in Beacon Hills, so they came back, and Peter killed Laura to become an alpha."

Every new detail was like a bullet. Bea couldn't stand or react. She just silently absorbed the news, as it got more and more crazy, and kept her eyes shut.

"Yeah," Stiles continued, apparently aggravated now. "You know Laura? His _niece?_ _He_ was the one who ripped her in half. Don't ask me why he had to be so brutal about it, but he was—"

"There—" Bea's voice was hardly more than a cracked whisper. She started again. "There are only a few ways to kill an alpha and be positive that they'll stay dead. If he wasn't at his full strength… Of… of course it had to be gruesome. It… was the only way for him to know that… she wouldn't…"

"Are you really _rationalizing_ him killing his _niece_ , Bea?" Stiles asked, disgusted.

Bea almost shuddered. She kept her head down and absorbed her brother's repulsion. Next time, she'd keep her clarifications to herself.

"Anyways," Scott picked up. "Once Peter was an alpha, he started to kill everyone who was responsible for the fire…" he trailed off, unsure of how Bea would react to the mention of the mysterious fire that killed a whole family. A family she, by her own accounts, had to have been close to. She didn't lift her head, and Scott tentatively continued. "And he started to rebuild a pack. Or he tried to, at least. That's why he bit me."

"How did he lose his alpha status?" She solemnly asked, her voice detached.

"Derek," Stiles supplied. "He ripped his throat out."

 _Well, spare no details_ , Bea thought to herself. Her temporary distaste was consumed by a flurry of new emotions at this news. Derek had apparently finally had enough with his uncle. She couldn't imagine the torment he'd gone through since she was away, and she found it impossible to picture the events they described, though she knew they were recounting it as they knew to be true.

"Then Derek is an alpha now?" she concluded.

They shook their heads, and Bea felt at a loss for trying to make sense of the story. She gaped at them helplessly.

Scott took pity. "He was. But... not anymore." He looked at Stiles, who could offer no better explanation and didn't seem eager to try. Scott eventually looked back to Bea. "Maybe you should sit down," he said, gesturing to the chair on the other side of the table she leaned on. He waited for her to obligingly move to the seat and then he started to explain. "Peter wasn't the only one to survive the fire…"

Bea laid her head back and groaned. She covered her face and gathered her emotions.

"Cora also made it out," Stiles persevered, sensing that he had to push his sister if they would ever get through this convoluted explanation. "She fled to South America after the fire."

"South _America?"_ Bea started, and then thinking of her impression of Derek's introverted younger sister, remembered her habit of online chatting and realized it made sense. She quieted and then shook her head astutely. "Oh. Okay, so then… where is she now? And what does that have to do with Derek's alpha status?"

"I'm getting there," Stiles scolded with a frown. "After Derek killed Peter, he was alone."

Bea's heart tugged painfully and she swallowed roughly, tamping down the agonizing remorse and sympathy that coursed through her, reminding herself that there could still be more to the story—that Derek may not be such a victim, that… that she didn't know _what_ happened, and there were always many sides to a story. Stiles and Scott's explanation was but one shared experience…

It didn't help. She still felt miserable for not being here.

"Scott didn't want to join his pack," Stiles continued, glancing at his friend.

Scott sheepishly agreed. "I didn't trust him."

"Why not?" she wanted to know.

Scott was surprised by the question. He blinked. "Well, he wasn't totally up front about a lot of stuff after I was bitten." He thought it over and admitted, "I guess I didn't really trust him because I didn't understand what was happening to me, and he claimed that he did, but instead of explaining, he just… always told me I was doing the wrong thing."

"Really." She pointedly asked, because she knew Derek wouldn't have treated Scott that way unless he truly felt Scott was making a mistake. It wasn't his nature. "And why was that?"

Stiles seemed insulted that Bea didn't immediately jump to Scott's defense. He bristled, and Scott shifted uncomfortably. "We just—we disagreed on how to handle certain things." Bea raised an eyebrow, and Stiles sardonically cut in.

" _Every_ thing," He corrected.

Scott ignored him. "I mean, you have to understand, people around town kept dying. At the time it seemed random, but now we know it was Peter targeting people responsible for the fire. I was terrified that it was my fault, that somehow I was the one killing some of these people, and Derek... he knew more than we did, but... we had to figure a lot out on our own."

"He wanted Scott to agree to join him," Stiles revealed. "Even before he was an alpha. He wanted to train Scott. He would point out everything Scott did wrong every chance he got. I think my favorite part was when he made me feel like I wasn't competent enough to figure out how to help my own friend. He even said Scott would end up killing someone."

Scott nodded. "And once Derek became the alpha, things didn't exactly get better. He still treated me like I was an idiot and he expected me to just blindly follow his directions!"

"Okay," Bea said, raising a hand to silence their justifications. "Derek has no tolerance for idiots when it comes to handling the supernatural," She allowed. "I know that. You should've seen how he reacted when you were little and you read my diary, Stiles. He basically didn't speak to me for a week. He probably still hasn't forgiven me."

Stiles sat up indignantly. "Wait a minute! Are you—are you telling me I almost _read about werewolves in your diary?"_

Bea waved him off. "That's not the point. As crazy as it seems, Derek was truly trying to help you, Scott. I mean, I don't know the whole story yet, but from what I've heard so far he just… he's not an idiot. You say you didn't trust him? Well, he probably didn't trust you either. If he didn't know who the alpha was any more than you did, he didn't know who to trust. Besides, you said it yourself, Scott, getting bitten wasn't something you wanted, it wasn't something you were prepared for, and Derek knew just as well as you did that it wasn't fair for you to have been bitten that night. He was just... trying to _help_."

"Um, okay," Stiles said, like he didn't agree. "Well he also _bit_ three of our classmates. Wait—no—four. I almost forgot he was the one who bit Jackson."

"What?" Bea gaped. It was the most enthusiastic response they'd gotten from her in a few minutes, and they were encouraged by her disbelief. "He—" she stopped, filling in the blanks on her own. "He was trying to build his own pack."

"Using a bunch of desperate, lonely teenagers, yes," Stiles elaborated.

"Isaac, Erica and Boyd," Scott rattled off.

"What happened to them?" She said. "Where are they now?"

"Dead or gone far away," Stiles blandly declared.

Bea cradled her head in her hands. _Derek_ …

"And he could barely control them," Stiles added. "Their first few full moons were _rough_. But wait! It gets worse. Remember I said he bit Jackson? Well, Jackson didn't reject the bite, but he didn't exactly _accept_ it either."

"What does _that_ mean?" Bea was almost afraid of the answer. "What happened to him?"

"He became a kanima," Scott said, a stony expression on his face. "And he hurt a lot of people."

"But kanimas don't hurt people unless they're told to."

They were stunned by her matter-of-fact argument. Stiles and Scott marveled at just how much she knew.

"Uh…" Scott recovered. "That's… true. It wasn't Jackson's fault, I guess. Long story short, a student our age—his name was Matt—controlled the kanima and used it to get revenge on some people _your_ age who almost drowned him when he was young. Nothing was ever done about it back when it happened, so Matt decided to take his revenge with Jackson. Until a hunter killed Matt and took control of the kanima. Gerard Argent, to be exact."

"Gerard?" She shook her head. "Why would he kill the student? I thought the hunters protected humans."

"Oh, I don't know—maybe because that _human_ was using the kanima like a weapon to assassinate people," Stiles dryly reminded.

"So why not kill the kanima?" Bea pointed out. "Eliminate the weapon, you give the student a shot at redemption."

Stiles blinked rapidly and turned to signal Bea to wait. "Okay, _first_ of all—you honestly believe it would've been possible to redeem him?" Stiles couldn't believe it. "I mean, seriously?"

Bea shrugged defensively. "You said he was getting revenge on people who almost got him killed! Bullies! I mean... as far as reasons go to take someone out, that's not the _worst_ one I've ever heard."

He shook his head and waved his hands to clear that argument away. "Okay, well, have we forgotten the fact that the kanima is still a person? Jackson! If you kill the kanima, you kill Jackson. How is that fair? He didn't even know what he was doing! He deserves to die for something he couldn't control?"

Bea could sense that Stiles felt strongly on this matter, but she couldn't figure out why. She decided to rely on her tried and true method of reasoning with Stiles: rationale. "Kanimas only form as a manifestation of a seriously emotionally-fucked-up human being. Someone who has no idea who they are or where they truly belong, but someone who's also willing to sacrifice anyone around them to achieve a means to their end. You _hated_ Jackson for a reason. He was an asshole for a _reason_. If I had to guess I'd say he was in deep denial about being gay or wanting something he thought he shouldn't want, but Freud would argue it probably goes all the way back to his parents."

Stiles blinked at her. "He... was adopted. His parents died in a car crash the night he was born."

Bea looked slightly smug at how accurately she'd deduced that. "See?" She tapped her head. "Take notes, brother."

He looked troubled, and like he felt the argument wasn't quite settled.

"Either way, Gerard wasn't interested in redemption," Scott finally explained. He remained solemn in the face of Bea's shock. "He had cancer, and he wanted to use the kanima to force Derek to give him the bite so it would be cured."

"He's a _hunter!_ " She exclaimed. "What—what even..." Bea cradled her head again, squeezing her eyes shut. "What a _mess_."

Stiles snorted. "You have _no_ idea. Oh! And at the same time Jackson was on a _bullycide_ frenzy for Matt, your pal _Peter_ —"

"Would you stop calling him that?" She growled, and Stiles continued as if she hadn't spoken.

"Took control of Lydia from beyond the grave to perform a ritual to resurrect him."

" _How_ —" Bea broke off. " _What?"_

"Actually, we're still not totally sure on that one," Scott admitted. "We stopped asking for details after a while. So anyways, Peter and Derek teamed up to stop Gerard. They're... _okay_ now, I guess."

"Did they?" Bea wondered. "Stop Gerard, I mean."

"Not exactly." Stiles sighed. "Scott should take the credit for that one."

"I didn't do it alone," Scott said, uncomfortable at the idea of taking all the credit. "I had a lot of help."

"The point is, he was stopped." Stiles laid his arm across the back of the bench. "And, well, crap like that can't happen without rumors eventually starting, and somehow Cora heard about an alpha being in Beacon Hills again all the way from South America. She travelled back, but…"

"She was taken hostage by an alpha pack."

Bea held her hands up. "Stop! Stop, that's enough. I can't… I can't take anymore." She threw her head back again and groaned. "I can't believe how much I've missed."

"That's hardly even the start of it," Scott muttered. "There's a lot more."

"Just one more thing. To wrap up what happened with Cora, I'll skip a bunch of details and cut to the chase. She was poisoned with mistletoe and almost died, but Derek took her pain and sacrificed his alpha status to heal her."

She was admittedly touched at this bit of news. Bea nodded like she knew it all along. "And it worked?"

Stiles nodded. "She left and went back to South America, I think."

Bea grunted in response and tried to process all of it. She tried to figure out the roles everyone played, what led to what happening, and who was left standing. Then she recalled something. _Allison_. Allison _Argent_. She was a hunter!

Knowing what she knew now, Scott's involvement with the girl made a lot more sense. Teenagers had a way of becoming obsessed with what they couldn't have—something Bea knew all too well.

Suddenly, it came together. She felt the facts clicking into place. She could imagine it, picture how Derek would feel about Scott's romantic interest in a hunter—an _Argent_ , no less. She could guess how it might hit close to home. It certainly explained the alleged 'hostility' that Scott and her brother described Derek as having, as well as his insistence that Scott continued to make mistake after mistake.

She could see it all more clearly now. What she couldn't understand is how the hell Derek could stand to be around _Peter_ now like nothing ever happened. How could he trust Peter after what he'd done? How… how could he have kept all this from her?

She stood. "I have to go," she declared, much to Scott and Stiles' surprise.

"Well—wait!" Stiles called as Bea made a beeline for the door. "We're not done here! We have to more to talk about! What about you?"

She stopped at the door and turned her head to the side without facing them. "What _about_ me?"

"What happened to you?" Stiles paused. "There's more you haven't told us, isn't there? Something happened."

Scott frowned at Bea and took a step forward, like he wanted to reach out and stop her from leaving, worried that she might have somehow gotten hurt in the past too.

The door groaned loudly as it rolled open, and Bea took a breath, stepping in the light of the setting sun. "No. Nothing happened to me, Stiles. Nothing that you don't already know about."

Her brother clenched a fist and he looked ready to protest, but she exited the barn and he lost his chance. They watched her leave, powerless to force her to stay and explain her side of things.

* * *

She waited until it was dark out. Then, she went to the apartment she knew Peter rented. It wasn't far from Derek's, but it had less parking. It was the sort of place that required authorized entry to access a parking garage, and she hadn't exactly called Peter up beforehand.

As such, she left the rental car about a block away and walked the rest of the way over. After getting a bit of the run-around from the greeters in the lobby, Bea was permitted to get on the elevator and head over to Peter's lair. It was odd—and yet totally in character—for Peter to have chosen such an extravagant and normal place to stay. One with security and bellboys.

He was waiting for her, because she didn't even get the chance to knock before he opened the door. Peter was surprised to see her. He looked at her face, noticing how grim her expression was, and at her bag that she let her hand rest on. "I have to admit," He started. "I'm surprised you're here. It's Friday night and Derek was out—I had assumed he was with you, but apparently…" Peter stepped aside to let her in and cocked an eyebrow at her. "Didn't you meet someone _special_ while you were away?" He suddenly wondered, catching her by surprise. If he noticed her glare, he didn't let on. "I mean, come on. An attractive, single young woman like yourself, who's been through so much…"

"Really?" She flatly asked, passing around him to enter his apartment. She looked around at the swanky decorations. "Security calls to ask about an unannounced visitor and... you were surprised I wasn't on a _date?_ "

He snorted. "Point taken." Taking a breath, he shifted on his feet and gestured. "Tour?"

She made a face. "No."

Sounding almost distracted, he lightly said, "Suit yourself… I suppose I was more surprised that you were alone and didn't call Derek to help you with—whatever you need help with. You called _me_. Do you not have Derek's number yet? Or is this something that requires a more… subtle touch than Derek can offer?"

She sighed heavily and picked up her bag. Peter eyed it like he had x-ray vision and could see its contents.

"What's that?" He asked, suspicious.

Bea clenched her hand into fists as the anger she'd been suppressing drew a tight, uncomfortable knot in the hollow of her chest. She held onto it as she answered. "Research." Peter looked almost curious.

"In that case, let's go to my office. You can show me what you have there."

 _He has an office_ , she mused, but kept silent as he led the way through a hall, past a sitting room and a guest room. They came to double french doors that he passed through. She knew he wasn't the type of man to hold doors open, but she at least thought he might offer her a drink. Then again, he never did seem to like how she'd taken to alcohol, so she really shouldn't be surprised. And anyways, she was here for a purpose.

"You realize, of course, that you'll have to give me a very good reason not to share everything we discuss with Derek as soon as you leave. It really might have been easier to just do this at his loft."

Bea helped herself to a chair by the bookshelf nearby, dragging it across the carpet in front of the desk. She let it go with a thud and sat down. Peter watched intently from beside a cabinet, a laptop in his hands, and raised his eyebrows as she deposited a file on his desk.

"What's that?" He asked when she didn't immediately explain herself.

"I put that together tonight," Bea lightly admitted, feeling like every word dripped with venom. "I've been agonizing for hours about who to _share_ it with."

Peter didn't offer a comment. He simply watched and listened, calculatingly, as Bea continued. "There's Derek, but he already knew everything, so none of this would really come as a shock. Though the look on his face when he finds out I know what you two've been _hiding_ might have made it worth it. Then... there's my dad."

Peter went carefully still.

"He'd be interested in some of this, we can be certain of _that_..." Bea sighed. "But no... not yet." Reaching back into her bag, she thumbed the next object, running her hand over the handle, knowing that the moment she pulled it out, she could never take it back and he would never forget this happened. In a way, she was counting on that.

She watched as Peter went to touch the file, his eyes on her. He flipped it open when she didn't shout at him not to touch it. His eyes scanned over the first few lines, and withdrew his hand. "This... is a file about _me_."

Bea didn't say anything. Peter's eyes flashed, and as he reached down to grab the file, she withdrew the stun baton from her bag and leaped up to smack his hand away with the weapon.

Peter immediately stepped out of range. The room grew quiet, tension fraught between them, and Peter rubbed at his hand with an indignant scowl. Bea pointed the baton at the chair on the other side of the desk. "Sit down," she said.

He looked her over. "You're not even drunk," He observed. "So tell me how you could be so _stupid?_ "

She flicked a button on the baton and let another stream of electricity flow through it. "Trust me, I'm painfully aware of how stone cold sober I am. I can't imagine adding _liquor_ to all the toxic news I've failed to digest today. Please, would you _sit down_ , Peter."

"Because you said please," He snipped, and went to sit in the chair and glare up at her. She could practically hear him screaming at her in his head, but he didn't let a single syllable cross his lips. Bea set the stun baton down in her lap and got out a gun, laying it on the table between them with purpose.

Peter rolled his eyes and Bea felt a flare of rage burn through her. "Bea. Think about this before it's too late. I know you. I knew you when you were still just a fourteen year old girl caught up in things way beyond her purview."

Bea itched to grab the gun. But she would save that. In case she really needed to make a point. "I promise you I'm different. I grew up. Clearly, I'm not as afraid of confrontation."

"Yes," He agreed. "Ten years later and you're still just as clueless now as you ever were."

"No, not so clueless. Even ten years ago I could see you for who you really are, what you were truly capable of." Bea tapped the folder with her baton, and Peter had the nerve to look offended. "The only difference is now everyone else knows it too."

There was a long pause, which Peter took advantage of to glare at Bea like she was an insect who'd invaded his home. She let the silence fester. "Oh, did you want me to comment on that?"

Bea shook her head. "No, I'm not here to listen to your justifications."

"Why are you here?" He asked, leaning forward, looking her in the eye. "What is it that you want?"

Bea leaned forward, too. "The same thing you want. The only thing I've ever wanted. To protect my family when they're threatened."

"And you think _I'm_ a threat to your family?" Peter sounded amused, but there was some nameless glint in his eye that kept him cold. "Honestly, Bea, if I wanted to do something, don't you think I would have done it by now?"

She went quiet again at the veiled reminder that he was still an active threat. Just because he seemed to be playing on their side right now didn't mean he couldn't turn on a dime, and she didn't actually trust that he played for anyone's side but his own. "You bit Scott. You've killed how many people in Beacon Hills in the last year alone?"

"They weren't _people_ , Bea," He quietly informed her. "They were monsters. If you know so much then you'll know exactly what I'm talking about. Either way, I didn't ask for your opinion in the first place."

"I get it," Bea admitted, catching Peter by surprise. He sat back and narrowed his eyes at her. "I do. They had a hand in what happened to your family. They deserved what was came to them, I can admit that. But Scott? Biting _him?_ He was a kid, Peter. He still is."

"He's strong," Peter defended, something that Bea wasn't expecting. Then she realized he was just justifying his actions. "Really strong. In fact, do you even know what he is?"

For a moment, she hesitated. Then she shook her head and pushed on. "I know he can never be normal ever again. You took that from him."

"Normal?" Peter scoffed. "The kind of power he has—"

Bea smacked the table, silencing him. "Peter! Listen to me! It doesn't matter!"

He was looking at her like she was crazy now. "How can you say that? You've been around us long enough by now that you should know the advantages—"

"All I know is that it complicates an already complicated life. Hunters... kanimas... wendigos... alphas... omegas." She shook her head. "All they do is bring danger into the lives of the ones I love. Anything that's happened to Stiles or Scott since you bit him is completely your fault, just like the ones who set your house on fire are at fault for what happened to your family."

"It's not even _close_ to being the same—"

"This isn't a debate!" She exclaimed. "This is just me... telling you that I know! Everything!"

Peter sat back again and crossed his arms. He wasn't even looking at the baton or the gun. In fact, he hadn't since she set them down. She thumbed the trigger of the baton as he shrugged at her. "Okay. So you know."

"And it's also a warning."

Peter's eyebrow cocked mockingly at her.

"If you thought I was watching you closely before, just wait," Bea said.

"Okay, true, Scott may have been a little young. But have you met him since you've been back? Have you seen what he's become? How strong he is? How can you see it as anything but an improvement?"

Bea gave him a withering glare. "Because it's not that simple, Peter. He's stuck with this for the rest of his life, and it wasn't even his choice."

"I didn't bite your brother," Peter offered, as though she had somehow overlooked that fact.

"That's probably the only smart thing you've done."

"I would be willing to debate you on that," Peter stubbornly asserted, causing Bea to roll her eyes.

"Save it."

He sat forward suddenly, looking like something was bothering him. "You know, I really thought we had gotten somewhere, Bea. Since you've been back, haven't I answered every one of your calls? Haven't I helped you to the best of my abilities?"

"Yes, and that's the only reason this is only a warning," Bea allowed, and Peter paused to process her response. "Derek once said you and I were alike. Don't make me show him just how much worse than you I'm willing to become for _my_ family."

Instead of laughing like she'd almost expected, Peter raised his eyebrows. He crossed his arms and gave her a single nod. "The main concern right now should be figuring out what's causing so many kids to jump off Riley Bridge."

"No offense, Peter, but I've been in a room alone with you for way too long," Bea suddenly admitted as she stood to gather her things. "Next time, let's meet at Derek's loft."

He could only watch as she made her way to the door of his office, and offered her a smile that she could have done without when she turned to look at him. "I look forward to it."

She hurried out of his apartment with the intent to find the nearest bottle of liquor and cleanse herself of their weird conversation.


End file.
